THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

ELI  SOBEL 


s 


Representative   English   Comedies 

FROM    THE    BEGINNINGS 

TO 

SHAKESPEARE 


REPRESENTATIVE    ENGLISH 
COMEDIES 

WITH  INTRODUCTORY  ESSAYS  AND  NOTES 
AN  HISTORICAL  VIEW  OF  OUR  EARLIER  COMEDY 

AND  OTHER  MONOGRAPHS 

BY   VARIOUS    WRITERS 

UNDER    THE    GENERAL    EDITORSHIP    OF 

CHARLES    MILLS   GAYLEY,  LITT.D.,  LL.D. 

Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Literature 
in  the  University  of  California 

FROM    THE    BEGINNINGS 

TO 

SHAKESPEARE 


Nefo 
THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY. 

LONDON:    MACMILLAN   &  CO.,   LTD. 

1907 
All  rights   reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1903, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  published  March,  1903.      Reprinted 
November,  1903;  June,  1907. 


J.  8.    Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,   U.S.A. 


URL 

oc/355^| 
V.) 

PREFACE 

" '  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be  no 
more  cakes  and  ale  .  .  .  nor  ginger  hot  i'  the  mouth  ? '  Or 
knowest  not  that  while  man,  casting  the  dice  with  Fate  and  Mis- 
tress Grundy,  imagineth  a  new  luck,  there  shall  be  new  comedy  ? 
Why,  then,  reprint  these  old  ? " 

In  part,  because  the  comedies  of  a  nation  are  for  literature  as 
well  as  for  the  footlights,  and  literature,  in  most  cases,  begins  after 
the  footlights  are  out.  In  part,  because  old  comedies  make  good 
reading,  not  only  for  lovers  of  fiction  and  the  stage,  but  for  the 
student  of  society  and  the  historian.  Until  rival  forms  of  literary 
art  began  to  usurp  their  function,  comedies  were  —  in  England,  not 
'.o  speak  of  other  and  older  lands  —  the  recognized  and  cherished 
exponent  of  the  successive  phases  of  contemporary  life.  For  us 
they  still  are  living  sketches  of  the  social  manners,  morals,  vanities, 
and  ideals  of  generations  of  our  ancestors  ;  history  "  unbeknownst" 
as  written  by  contemporaries.  Unfortunately,  many  of  these  old 
comedies  are  inaccessible  to  the  public ;  and,  therefore,  we  venture 
to  hope  that  the  general  reader  may  find  such  a  collection  as  the 
present  acceptable,  whether  he  care  to  enter  upon  a  historical  and 
technical  study  of  the  subject  or  not. 

To  the  student  of  literary  history,  however,  this  series  will,  we 
trust,  justify  its  existence  for  quite  another  reason.  For  the  aim 
of  this  volume  and  those  which  will  follow  is  to  indicate  the 
development  of  a  literary  type  by  a  selection  of  its  representative 
specimens,  arranged  in  the  order  of  their  production  and  accom- 


vi  Preface 


panied  by  critical  and  historical  studies.  So  little  has  been  scien- 
tifically determined  concerning  evolution  or  permutation  in  literature 
that  the  more  specific  the  field  of  inquiry,  the  more  trustworthy 
are  the  results  attained, —  hence  the  limitation  of  this  research  not 
merely  to  a  genus  like  the  drama,  but  to  one  of  its  species.  What 
is  here  presented  to  the  public  differs  from  histories  of  the  drama  in 
that  it  is  more  restricted  in  scope  and  that  it  substantiates  the  nar- 
rative of  a  literary  growth  by  reproducing  the  data  necessary  to  an 
induction  ;  it  differs  from  editions  of  individual  plays  and  drama- 
tists, on  the  other  hand,  because  it  attempts  to  concatenate  its  texts 
by  a  running  commentary  upon  the  characteristics  of  the  species 
under  consideration  as  they  successively  appear.  It  is  an  illustrated, 
if  not  certified,  history  of  English  comedy. 

The  plays,  in  this  series  called  representative,  have  been  chosen 
primarily  for  their  importance  in  the  history  of  comedy,  generally 
also  for  their  literary  quality,  and,  when  possible,  for  their  practical, 
dramatic,  or  histrionic  value.  Of  the  studies  accompanying  them, 
some  are  special,  such  as  those  dealing  with  the  several  authors  and 
plays  ;  some  general,  the  monographs  upon  groups  or  movements, 
and  the  sketch  introductory  to  the  volume.  The  essay  prefatory 
to  a  play  includes,  when  possible,  an  outline  of  the  dramatist's  life,  a 
concise  history  of  his  contribution  to  comedy,  with  reference,  when 
appropriate,  to  his  productions  in  other  fields,  an  estimate  of  his 
output  in  its  relation  to  the  national,  social,  literary,  and  technical 
development  of  the  type  in  question,  and  to  such  foreign  move- 
ments and  influences  as  may  be  cognate,  and,  finally,  an  exposition 
and  criticism  of  the  play  presented.  By  the  insertion  in  proper 
chronological  position  of  occasional  monographs,  it  is  intended  to 
represent  minor  dramatists  or  groups  of  the  same  school,  period,  or 
movement,  —  sometimes,  indeed,  an  author  of  exceptional  impor- 
tance,—  in  such  a  way  that  the  historical  continuity  of  the  species 


Preface  vii 


may  be  as  evident  in  its  minor  manifestations  as  in  the  better 
known.  The  general  introductions  to  these  volumes  will  usually 
attempt  to  discuss  matters  of  historical  interest  not  covered  by 
the  editors  of  special  portions  of  the  work.  It  has  been  necessary, 
therefore,  i.c  open  the  series,  in  this  book,  with  an  historical  view 
of  the  beginnings  of  comedy  in  England.  While  the  various  con- 
tributors to  the  enterprise  have  exercised  their  individual  preferences 
in  matters  of  literary  treatment,  judgment,  and  style,  the  general 
editor  has  attempted  to  secure  the  requisite  degree  of  uniformity  by 
requesting  each  to  conform  so  far  as  his  taste  and  historical  con- 
science might  permit  to  a  common  but  elastic  outline  of  method 
previously  prepared.  If  the  attempt  has  succeeded,  there  has  been 
gained  something  of  continuity  and  scientific  value  for  the  series. 
The  presence,  at  the  same  time,  of  an  occasional  personal  element 
in  the  several  articles  of  the  history  will  enhance  its  value  for  our 
dear  friend,  the  good  old-fashioned  reader,  who  sets  no  store  by 
literary  science,  but  judges  books  by  his  liking,  and  likes  to  read 
such  judgments  of  them. 

The  texts  of  the  comedies  presented  are,  to  the  best  ability  of 
their  respective  editors,  faithful  reprints  of  the  best  originals  ;  where 
possible,  those  published  during  the  authors'  lives.  Spelling  and 
language  have  been  preserved  as  they  were ;  but  for  the  conven- 
ience of  readers,  the  punctuation  and  the  style  of  capitals  and 
letters,  such  as  /,  y,  w,  v,  s,  have  been,  unless  otherwise  specified, 
conformed  to  the  modern  custom. 

The  general  editor  regrets  that  it  has  not  been  feasible  to  preface 
the  series  with  some  of  the  still  earlier  experiments  in  comedy, 
but  he  indulges  the  hope  that  such  a  volume  may  later  be  added, 
and,  also,  that  it  may  soon  be  possible  to  publish  in  its  proper  pro- 
portions the  materials  which  have  been  condensed  into  the  Historical 
f^iew  here  submitted.  He  takes  this  opportunity  to  express  his 


viii  Prefc 


ace 


appreciation  of  the  courtesy  of  the  scholars  who  have  engaged  with 
him  in  this  undertaking,  and  especially  to  thank  Mr.  Pollard  of  the 
British  Museum,  and  Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Nicholson  of  the  Bodleian 
Library,  Professor  Gummere,  Professor  Dowden,  and  the  Master 
of  Peterhouse  for  assistance,  encouragement,  and  counsel  which 
have  contributed  to  make  this  labour  a  delight.  Other  volumes  of 
this  series  are  well  under  way,  and  will  follow  with  all  reasonable 
celerity. 

CHARLES    MILLS    GAYLEY. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 
February  3,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

Page 
I.     AN  HISTORICAL  VIEW  OF  THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  ENGLISH  COMEDY 

By  Charles  Mills  Gayley 

Of  the  University  of  California  XI 

JI.     JOHN  HEYWOOD  :   Critical  Essay       .        Alfred  W.  Pollard 

Of  St.  John's  College,  Oxford,  anil  the  British  Museum  I 

Edition  of  the  P/ay  of  the  Wether     ....  The  Same        19 
Edition  of  a  Mery  Play  betweene  Johan  Johan,  Tyb,  etc. 

The  Same        6 1 

III.  NICHOLAS  UDALL  :   Critical  Essay     .      .      .    Evvald  Fliigel 

Of  Stanford  University  87 

Edition  of  Roister  Doister The  Same      105 

Appendix  on  Various  Matters The  Same      I  89 

IV.  WILLIAM   STEVENSON  :   Critical  Essay      .        Henry  Bradley 

Of  the   University  of  Oxford       I  95 

Edition  of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle   ....  The  Same     205 
Appendix The  Same      259 

V.     JOHN  LYLY  :   Critical  Essay   ....     George  P.  Baker 

Of  Harvard  University        263 

Edition  of  Alexander  and  Campaspe  .      .      .      .  The  Same      277 
VI.      GEORGE   PEELE  :   Critical  Essay    .      .      .     F.  B.  Gummere 

Of  Haverford  College       333 

Edition  of  The  Old  Wive?  Tale      .      .      .      .The  Same     349 
Appendix The  Same      383 


x  Contents 

Page 
VII.      GREENE'S  PLACE  IN  COMEDY  :   A  Monograph        .... 

G.  E.  Woodberry 

Of  Columbia  University       3^5 

VIII.      ROBERT  GREENE  :    His  Life,  and  the  Order  of  his  Plays    . 

Charles  Mills  Gayley      395 
Edition  of  the  Honourable  Historic  of  Frier  Bacon 

The  Same     433 
Appendix  on  Greene's  Versification  ....  The  Same      503 

IX.      HENRY  PORTER  :   Critical  Essay        .        Charles  Mills  Gayley      5 1 3 
Edition  of  The  Two  Angry  Women  of  Abington 

The  Same      537 

X.      SHAKESPEARE  AS  A   COMIC  DRAMATIST    .    Edward  Dowden 

Of  Trinity  College,  Dublin       635 

INDEX 663 


An  Historical  View 


BEGINNINGS    OF    ENGLISH    COMEDY 


By  Charles  Mills  Gayley 


AN    HISTORICAL    VIEW    OF   THE    BEGINNINGS 
OF    ENGLISH    COMEDY 

i.   Liturgical  Fragments,  Early  Saints'  Plays  and  Parodies 

THE  earliest  evidence  of"  dramatic  effort  in  England  is  to  be  found  in  Latin 
tropes  of  the  Easter  service,  composed  for  use  in  churches  at  different  periods 
between  967  and  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  century.  While  these  are,  of 
course,  serious  in  nature  and  function,  they  interest  the  historian  of  comedy 
because  they  show  that  the  dramatic  spirit  was  at  work  among  our  ancestors 
before  the  Anglo-Saxons  had  passed  under  the  yoke  of  the  Normans.  Like- 
wise naturally  devoid  of  comic  interest,  but  of  vital  importance  in  the  de- 
velopment of  a  dramatic  technique,  are  certain  fragments  of  liturgical  plays, 
belonging  to  the  library  of  Shrewsbury  School,  which  were  published  in  i  890 
by  Professor  Skeat.1  Each  of  these  deals,  as  an  integer,  with  a  crisis  in  the 
career  of  our  Lord  ;  and,  except  for  occasional  choruses  and  passages  from 
the  liturgy  in  Latin,  the  plays  are  English  —  the  English,  in  fact,  translating 
and  enlarging  upon  the  Latin  of  the  service.  Though  the  manuscript  is  prob- 
ably not  older  than  1400,  it  is  a  fragment,  as  Professor  Manly  has  said,  of  a 
series  of  plays  of  much  earlier  date,  which  were  "  performed  in  a  church  on 
the  days  and  in  the  service  celebrating  events  of  which  the  plays  treat." 
These  fragments  are  of  great  importance  as  constituting  a  link  between  the 
dramatic  tropes  of  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centuries  and  the  scriptural  pageants 
presented  at  a  later  period  outside  the  church  :  first  by  the  clergy,  with  the 
assistance,  perhaps,  of  townspeople  (as  may  have  been  the  case  when  a  Res- 
urrection play  was  given  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  John's,  Beverley,  about 
i  220)  ;  afterward  by  the  civic  authorities  and  the  several  gilds  when  church 
plays  had  come  to  be  acted  commonly  in  the  streets,  that  is,  after  the  reinsti- 
tution  of  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi  in  1311. 

The  existence  of  tropes  at  a  period  earlier  than  that  in  which  mention  is 
made  of  plays  based  upon  the  miracles  of  the  saints  appears  to  me  to  negative 
Professor  Ten  Brink's  conjecture  that  in  the  development  of  our  sacred  drama 
legendary  subjects  preceded  the  biblical.  Indeed,  the  fact  that  dramas  on 

1  In   The  Slcademf,  January  II,   1890. 

2  Manly,    Specimens  of  the  Pre-Sbakespearean  Dramii,  vol.   I.,  p.  xxvii  ;    for   examples  ot 
dramatic   tropes   from   the    Regularis   Concordia   Monacborum  and  the   Winchester  troper      see 
pp.  xix-xxvi. 

xiii 


xiv  An  Historical  View 

subjects  both  biblical  and  legendary,  and  of  a  technique  even  more  highly 
developed  than  that  of  the  Shrewsbury,  were,  as  early  as  I  160,  produced  for 
liturgical  functions  in  France,  not  only  by  Frenchmen,  but  by  one  Hilarius, 
who  was  presumably  an  Englishman,  favours  the  opinion  that  the  earliest 
saints'  plays  in  England,  also,  were  as  frequently  derived  from  scriptural  as 
from  legendary  sources.  It  is,  moreover,  likely  that  the  first  saints'  plays  on 
legendary  subjects  in  England  of  which  we  have  record  were  neither  the  first 
of  their  kind  in  the  period  attributed  to  their  presentation,  nor  a  notable  advance 
in  dramatic  art  when  they  were  presented.  There  is  nothing  in  the  earliest 
record  of  a  legendary  saint's  play,  the  miracle  of  St.  Katharine,  presented  by 
Geoffrey,  afterwards  Abbot  of  St.  Albans,  at  Dunstable  about  I  100,  to  war- 
rant the  inference  that  it  was  a  novelty,  even  at  that  date.  Since  Geoffrey 
was  at  the  time  awaiting  a  position  as  schoolmaster,  he  was  probably  within 
his  function,  de  consuetudine  magistrorum  et  scholarum,1  \vhen  he  produced 
the  play  ;  and  it  is  to  be  noticed  that  when  Matthew  of  Paris  writes  con- 
cerning the  matter,  about  1240,  he  appears  to  be  much  more  interested  in 
an  accident  which  attended  the  performance  than  in  the  mere  composition  and 
presentation  of  what  he  calls  "  some  play  or  other  of  St.  Katharine,  of  the  kind 
that  we  commonly  call  Miracles."  Indeed,  William  Fitzstephen,  writing 
some  seventy  years  before  Matthew,  speaks  of  such  plays  of  the  saints  as  in 
his  time  quite  customary.  The  probabilities  are,  then,  that  this  first  legendary 
saint's  play  recorded  as  acted  in  England  had  been  preceded  by  others  of  its 
kind,  and  they  in  turn  by  miracles  of  biblical  heroes  and  by  liturgical  plays  and 
dramatic  tropes  of  the  services  of  the  church. 

It  is  not  unreasonable  to  surmise  that  this  legendary  kind  of  miracle, 
although  sometimes  used  as  part  of  the  church  service  on  the  saint's  day, 
and  originally  possessed  of  serious  features,  speedily  developed  characterisiirs 
helpful  in  the  progress  of  the  comic  drama.  All  we  know  of  the  St.  Katha- 
rine play  is  that  it  was  written  for  secular  presentation  at  a  date  when  no 
mention  is  yet  made  of  the  public  acting  of  scriptural  plays.  The  dramatist 
would,  however,  be  more  likely  to  adorn  the  useful  with  the  amusing  in  the 
preparation  of  a  play  not  necessarily  to  be  performed  within  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts ;  and  while  the  technique  of  the  legendary  miracle  was  presumably 
akin  from  the  first  to  that  of  the  biblical,  it  is  natural  to  suppose  that  the  plot 
was  handled  with  larger  imaginative  freedom. 

But  our  knowledge  of  these  early  saints'  plays  need  not  be  entirely  a 
matter  of  surmise.  We  may  form  a  fair  idea  of  their  character  from  con- 

1  Non  no-vo  quidem  instiruto,  sat  de  consuetudine,  etc.,  says  Buheus,  Hist.    Unit'.,  l\ir.  II  , 
226  (edit.    1665);    Collier,  English  Dramatic  Poetry,  and  Annali  of  the  Stage,  I.    14. 
-  In  his  Lives  of  the  Abbots  of  St.  Albain. 


of  English  Comedy  xv 

temporary  testimony,  from  the  style  of  the  Latin  or  French  saints'  plays  of 
the  time  that  have  survived,  from  the  nature  of  the  legends  dramatized,  and 
from  the  analogy  of  contemporary  biblical  plays.  To  the  locus  classicus  of 
contemporary  testimony  in  William  Fitzstephen's  Life  of  Thomas  a  Becket 
(l  170-82)  I  have  already  made  reference.  Speaking  of  the  theatrical  shows 
and  spectacular  plays  of  Rome,  the  biographer  says  that  "  London  has  plays 
of  a  more  sacred  character  —  representations  of  the  miracles  which  saintly 
confessors  have  wrought,  or  of  the  sufferings  whereby  the  fortitude  of  martyrs 
has  been  displayed."  According  to  this,  the  ludi  sanctiores,  or  marvels,  as 
they  seem  later  to  be  called,1  are  of  two  classes  :  the  marvel  of  the  faith 
that  removes  mountains,  the  marvel  of  the  fortitude  that  endures  martyrdom. 
In  either  case  the  saint's  play  is  of  the  stuff  that  produces  comedy  ;  for, 
whether  the  miracles  are  active  or  passive,  the  Christian  saint  and  soldier 
always  proceeds  victorious,  and  with  increasing  merit  abides  as  ensample  and 
intercessor  in  the  church  invisible. 

This  relation  of  the  saint's  play  to  comedy  appears  the  more  evident 
when  we  read  in  the  GolJen  Legend  and  elsewhere  the  histories  of  the  saints 
who  became  favourites  in  English  or  foreign  drama  or  pageant,  —  St.  Katharine, 
St.  George,  St.  Susanna,  St.  Botulf,  and  the  like.  In  most  cases  the  triumph 
of  the  marvel  naturally  outweighed  the  terror  ;  and  in  the  one  of  the  few 
English  plays  of  the  purely  legendary  kind  that  survives,  the  St.  George  — 
degenerate  in  form  and  now  merely  a  folk  drama — the  self-glorification  of 
the  saint  and  the  amusing  discomfiture  and  recovery  of  himself  and  his  foes  are 
the  only  elements  that  have  outlived  the  stress  of  centuries.  The  Miracle  of 
St,  Nicholas,  written  in  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century,  affords  still  better 
opportunity  of  studying  the  dramatic  quality  of  the  kind  in  question.  For  the 
author,  Hilarius,  wrote  also  in  a  like  mixture  —  Latin  with  French  refrains  — 
a  scriptural  play  of  Lazarus  ;  and  in  collaboration  with  others,  but  entirely  in 
Latin,  a  magnificent  dramatic  history  called  Daniel.  These,  like  the  St. 
Nicholas,  were  adapted  to  performance  in  church  at  the  appropriate  season  in 
the  holy  year,  and  no  better  illustration  can  be  found  of  the  essential  difference 
between  the  scriptural  or  so-called  '  mystery  '  play,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
saint's  play,  on  the  other,  than  is  offered  by  them.  The  two  scriptural  plays, 
stately,  reverent,  adapted  to  the  solemn  and  regular  ritual  of  which  they  are  an 
illustration  in  the  concrete  betray  not  a  gleam  of  humour  ;  the  play  of  the  other 
kind,  written  as  it  is  for  the  festival  of  a  jovial  saint,  leaps  in  media*  res  with 
bustle  and  surprise ;  and  from  the  speech  with  which  Barbarus  entrusts  his 
treasure  to  the  saint  even  to  the  last  French  refrain,  after  Nicholas  has  forced  the 
robbers  to  restitution,  we  are  well  over  the  brink  of  the  comic.  By  the  ccn- 
1  In  the  Household  Book,  Henry  VII.  ;  Collier,  Hitt.,  vol.  i,  p.  ^  n 


xvi  A?i  Historical  View 

eluding  scene,  serious  and  in  Latin  of  the  church,  setting  forth  the  conversion 
of  the  pagan,  the  feelings  of  the  congregation  are  restored  to  the  level  of  the 
divine  service,  momentarily  interrupted  by  the  comedy  but  now  resumed. 

These,  and  all  saints'  plays  not,  like  the  St.  Anne's  play,  of  a  cyclic 
character,  were,  from  the  first,  dramatic  units  ;  they  represented  a  single 
general  plot,  generally  of  a  single  hero  ;  the  action  was  focussed  on  the 
critical  period  of  his  life  ;  and  a  considerable  incitement  was  consequently 
offered  to  invention  of  incident  and  development  of  character.  A  com- 
parative study  of  the  plays  concerning  St.  Nicholas  will  justify  the  statement 
that  the  dramatist  was  by  way  of  taking  liberties  with,  or  varying,  his  selec- 
tion from  legend.  The  Einsiedeln  Nicholas  play  of  the  twelfth  century 
deals  with  a  different  miracle  from  that  dramatized  by  Hilarius  ;  and  of  the 
four  Fleury  plays  of  St.  Nicholas,  probably  composed  in  the  same  century, 
the  two  that  deal  with  these  miracles  vary  the  treatment  ;  the  other  two  are 
on  different  themes,  but  all  would  appear,  from  the  editions  which  we  have 
of  them,  to  be  promising  little  comedies.  The  possibilities  of  this  kind  of 
drama  are  best  displayed  in  still  another  play  of  St.  Nicholas,  written  in 
the  vernacular  by  a  Frenchman  of  Arras,  Jean  Bodel,  about  the  year  1205. 
Throwing  the  traditional  legends  entirely  overboard,  he  gives  his  imagination 
free  course  with  favouring  winds  of  knightly  adventure,  but  over  the  waters 
of  everyday  life.  He  produces  a  play  at  once  comic,  fanciful,  and  realistic, 
the  first  of  its  kind  —  of  so  excellent  a  quality  that  Creizenach  savs  that  it 
would  appear  as  if  dramatic  poetry  were  even  then  well  on  the  way  of 
development  from  the  ecclesiastical  model  to  a  romantic  kind  of  art  in  the 
style  of  the  later  English  and  Spanish  drama  :  chivalric,  fantastic,  and  realistic.1 

Unfortunately,  other  plays  of  this  kind,  like  the  Theophilus  of  Rutebeuf, 
do  not  always  avail  themselves  of  their  chances  ;  but  we  may  in  general  sur- 
mise that  such  plays  in  English  —  and  we  have  evidence  of  many  —  contrib- 
uted as  much  as  the  biblical  miracle  to  the  cultivation  of  a  popular  taste  for 
comedy  and  the  encouragement  of  inventive  power  in  the  handling  of  dramatic- 
fable.  I  believe  that  they  contributed  more  than  the  pre- Reformation  morals, 
and  from  an  earlier  period. 

I  have  said  that  in  all  probability  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  presen- 
tation of  saints'  plays  by  Hilarius  and  Geoffrey.  Latin  plays  were  not  a 
novelty  in  the  twelfth  century,  at  anv  rate  to  men  of  culture  and  the  church. 
When  we  consider  the  history  of  the  Terentian  and  Plautine  manuscripts, 
how  carefully  the  former  were  cherished,  and  with  what  appreciation  a  por- 
tion at  least  of  the  latter,  during  the  Middle  Ages,  we  cannot  but  apprehend 
the  extent  of  their  influence,  even  when  unapparcnt,  upon  taste,  style,  and 

1  Gfscb.  Jes  neucrcn  Dramas,  I.   141. 


of  English  Comedy  xvii 

thought.  Plautus  (in  whose  comedies,  with  those  of  Terence,  St.  Jerome  was 
wont  to  seek  consolation  after  seasons  of  strenuous  fasting  and  prayer)  was 
imitated  in  a  Quero/us  and  probably  a  Geta,  as  early  as  the  fourth  century  ;  and 
Terence  was  adapted  by  Hrosvitha  in  the  tenth.  We  are,  therefore,  not  at  all 
surprised  when  we  find  Latin  comedy  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies clothing  itself  through  France  and  Italy  in  the  verdure  of  another  spring. 
To  be  sure  the  new  style  of  production  —  a  declamation  by  way  of  dialogue 
or  conversational  narrative,  in  elegiac  verse  —  was  not  intended  for  histrionic 
presentation  ;  but  it  was  nevertheless  of  the  dramatic  genus  ;  little  by  little  the 
narrative  outline  dwindled  and  the  mimetic  opportunities  of  the  speaker  were 
emphasized.  His  success  was  measured  by  his  skill  in  representing  diverse 
characters  merely  by  changes  of  voice,  countenance,  and  gesture.  He  is  the 
impersonator  in  transition  to  the  actor.  These  elegiac  comedies  indicate  the 
continuing  influence  of  Latin  comedy  upon  the  literary  creativity  of  the  day  ; 
they  furnish,  besides,  both  the  material  for  the  regular  drama  that  was  coming, 
and  the  taste  by  which  it  should  be  controlled.  I  am,  indeed,  of  the  opinion 
that  from  this  source  the  farce  interludes  of  England,  France,  and  Italy  drew 
much  of  their  content  during  the  next  three  centuries,  and  that  the  saint's 
plays  of  that  period,  at  least  those  in  Latin,  derived  therefrom  their  dramatic 
technique.  The  revival  of  Latin  comedy  during  the  twelfth  century  was 
partly  by  way  of  adaptations,  as  in  the  dramatic  poems  of  Yitalis  of  Blois  ; 
partly  of  independent  productions,  fashioned  upon  classical  models  but  dealing 
with  fontes,  fabliaux  or  novelle  of  contemporary  quality.  Of  the  latter  kind 
the  more  interesting  examples  upon  the  continent  were  the  Alda  of  William  of 
Blois,  and  two  elegiac  poems,  perhaps  Italian,  of  lovers  and  go-betweens,  —  a 
graceful  and  passionate  comedy  of  Pamphilus  and  a  dramatic  version  by  one 
Jacobus  of  the  intrigue,  so  dear  to  mediaeval  satirists,  between  priest  and 
labourer's  wife.  The  subject  and  treatment  of  the  last  of  these  suggest,  at 
once,  a  kinship  with  an  Intcrludium  de  CIcrico  et  Puella  in  English  of  the 
end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  with  an  earlier  English  story  from  which 
that  is  derived  ;  also  with  Hey  wood's  much  later  play  of  Johan.  That  there 
was  a  Latin  elegiac  comedy  in  England  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies, —  comedy  of  domestic  romance  with  all  or  some  of  the  characters  com- 
mon to  the  kind  —  youth  and  maid,  wife  and  paramour,  enamoured  cleric, 
faithless  husband,  cuckold,  enraged  father,  parasite,  slave,  go-between,  and 
double,  —  is  rendered  probable  by  the  survival  of  two  such  poems,  one  of 
which  bears  internal  evidence  of  its  origin  in  England,  while  the  only  manu- 
scripts extant  of  the  other  were  found  in  that  country.  The  first  lacks  a 
title,  but  has  been  called  the  Baucis  after  the  manipulator  of  the  intrigue,  a 
procuress  ;  the  second  is  named  Babio  for  the  unhappy  hero  who  is  at  one 


xviii  An  Historical  View 

and  the  same  time  fooled  by  his  wife  whom  he  doesn't  love,  and  his  step- 
daughter whom  he  does.  Both  comedies  display  the  influence  of  classical 
Latin,  but  the  latter  sparkles  with  the  humour  and  spontaneity  of  the  comedy 
of  contemporary  life.1 

I  agree,  therefore,  with  Dr.  Ward  that  the  burden  of  proof  is  with  those 
who  assert  that  the  Latin  comedy  of  the  Middle  Ages  made  no  impression  upon 
the  earlier  drama  of  England.  That  the  former  was  one  of  the  tributaries  of 
the  farce  interlude  and  the  principal  source  of  the  romantic  play  of  domestic 
intrigue  I  have  no  doubt  whatever.  And,  considering  the  influx  of  French 
clerics  and  culture  during  the  eleventh,  twelfth,  and  thirteenth  centuries,  and 
the  French  affiliations  of  Geoffrey  of  St.  Albans  and  Hilarius,  our  earliest 
recorded  writers  of  saints'  plays,  not  to  speak  of  the  latinity  of  our  Maps, 
Wirekers,  and  other  scholars  of  Henry  II. 's  reign,  and  their  familiarity  with 
the  literature  of  the  Continent,  which  was  Latin,  —  it  would  be  unreason- 
able to  assume  that  the  authors  of  our  saints'  plays,  whether  in  Latin  or  not, 
did  not  derive  something  of  their  technique  from  the  elegiac  comedies  of  their 
contemporary  latinists  in  France  and  England,  or  indeed  from  the  adaptations 
of  Plautus  and  Terence  in  previous  centuries,  or  from  the  originals  themselves. 

When  the  religious  drama  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  crafts,  it  carried 
with  it  such  individual  plays,  of  both  scriptural  and  legendary  kinds,  as  were 
suitable  to  the  collective  character  which  it  was  assuming.  The  Corpus  Christi, 
Whitsuntide,  Easter,  or  Christmas  cycle,  though  it  aimed  to  illustrate  sacred 
history  and  so  justify  God's  ways  to  man,  drew  its  materials,  not  only  from 
the  scriptures  of  the  canon,  but  from  the  Apocrypha,  the  pseudo-Gospels,  and 
mediaeval  legends  of  scriptural  and  sometimes  non-scriptural  saints.  There 
was  no  real  ground  for  distinction,  and  there  is  none  now,  dramatic  or  di- 
dactic, between  the  non-scriptural  stories  of  scriptural  characters,  St.  Joseph, 
and  St.  Thomas,  stories  of  the  Death,  Assumption,  and  Coronation  of  the 
Virgin,  stories  of  St.  Paul  and  St.  Mary  Magdalene,  which  happened  to  be 
absorbed  into  this  or  the  other  miracle  cycle,  and  the  non-scriptural  stories 
of  extra-biblical  saints  in  plays  which  have  retained  their  independence  :  that 
of  Nicholas,  for  instance,  or  of  Katharine  or  Laurence  or  Christina,  except 
that  these  and  their  heroes  are  concerned  with  events  later  than  those  which  con- 
clude the  earthly  career  of  our  Lord  and  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  All  religious 
historical  plays,  biblical  or  legendary,  cyclic  or  independent,  of  events  contem- 
poraneous jivith,  or  subsequent  to,  the  scriptural,  were  miracles,  properly  so 
called  by  our  forefathers  ;  and  as  the  didactic  intent  of  the  species  waned,  one 

1  Sc<-  Wright's  Early  Mysterir.<,  etc.,  Klein's  Gcscbicbtc  ties  Dramas,  III.  638  ft  s(f., 
Creizrnach,  Gcsfb.  d.  >i.  Dramas,  I.  37  ft  ~ry.  Ouadrio  speaks  in  his  Storia,  III.  ii.  52,  of  a 
Pictro  Bahyonc,  an  Englishman,  who,  according  to  Bale,  wrote  a  Latin  comedy  in  verse,  c.  I  366. 


of  English  Comedy  xix 

was  as  likely  as  another  to  develop  material  for  amusement.  Indeed,  the 
authors  of  the  Manuel  des  Pechiez  and  The  Handlynge  S^nne,  — the  preacher 
of  that  fourteenth-century  attack  upon  miracle  plavs  which  has  been  preserved 
in  the  Re/iquue  Antique,  —  these,  and  Chaucer,  Langland,  and  Wyclif  make 
no  distinction  between  miracles  of  the  central  mystery  from  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments  and  miracles  worked  and  suffered  by  saints,  whether  legendary  or 
biblical.  The  distinction,  if  any,  made  by  them,  is  between  miracles  acted  to 
further  belief  by  priests  and  clerks  in  orders  in  the  church,  and  those  acted  for 
amusement  by  these  or  by  laymen  in  the  streets  and  on  the  greens.  And  it  is 
safe  to  say  that  as  soon  as  a  play  became  more  amusing  than  edifying,  it  fell 
under  the  censure  ot  the  church.  This  happened  as  early  as  1210,  when  a 
decretal  of  Innocent  III.  forbade  the  acting  of  ludi  thcatrales  in  churches. 
Indeed  much  earlier,  for  Tertullian  and  St.  Augustine  and  the  Councils  had 
consistently  condemned  the  performances  of  histriones,  mimi,  lusores,  and  others 
who  perpetuated  the  traditions  ot  the  pagan  Roman  stage.  In  1227  the 
Council  ot  Treves  took  such  action.  Gregory  IX.  attempted  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  growing  participation  of  the  clergy,  "lest  the  honour  of  the  church 
should  be  defiled  by  these  shametul  practices."  '  And  during  the  succeeding 
decades  more  than  one  Synod  issued  orders  of  the  same  tenor.  Now,  even 
though  it  is  practically  certain  that  these  fulminations  were  directed  against 
perversions  of  divine  worship,  mock  festivals  and  profane  plays  with  the 
monstrous  disguisings  or  mummings  involved,2  there  is  also  no  doubt  that 
the  prohibition  came  speedily  to  apply  to  the  use  of  masks  and  other  dis- 
guises in  sacred  plays,  and  then  to  the  presentation  of  plays  in  church  for 
any  other  than  devotional  purposes.  Such  tor  instance  was  the  animus  with 
which  William  of  Wadington,  in  the  Manuel  des  Pechiez,  about  1235,  called 
attention  to  the  scandal  of  the  foolish  clergy  who,  in  disguise,  acted  miracles 
'  k y  est  defendu  en  decreS  To  play  the  Resurrection  in  church,  pur  plus 
aver  devociun,  was  permissible  ;  but  to  gather  assemblies  in  the  streets  of  the 
cities  after  dinner,  when  tools  more  readily  congregate,  that  was  a  sacrilege. 
At  this  early  date,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  kind  of  drama  which  was 
extruded  from  the  church  had  already  invested  such  of  its  subjects  as  were 
biblical  or  legendary  with  the  realistic  and  comic  qualities  which  made  for 
popularity,  and  so  was  fitting  itself  for  adoption  by  the  crafts.  Indeed,  we 
are  told  by  a  thirteenth-century  historian  of  the  Church  of  York,3  that,  at  a 
date  which  must  be  set  near  1220,  there  was  a  representation  as  usual  ot  the 
Lord's  Ascension  by  masked  performers,  in  words  and  acting  ;  and  that  a  large 

1   Ward,  I.   52.  2  Creizcnach,  I.   101. 

3  Historians  of  the  Church  of  York,  Rolls  Series,  No.  71,  i.    328.      Quoted  by  A.   F. 
Leach  in  Some  English  l'la\i  and  Players,  Furnivall  Miscellany,  p.  206. 


xx  An  Historical  View 

crowd  of  both  sexes  was  assembled,  led  there  by  different  impulses,  some  by 
mere  pleasure  and  wonder,  others  for  a  religious  purpose.  This  was  the  play 
in  the  churchyard  of  St.  John's,  Beverley,  to  which  I  have  referred  before. 
The  miracula  of  the  story  cited  by  Wright '  and  conjecturally  assigned  to  the 
thirteenth  century,  had  also  passed  beyond  the  sheer  didactic  stage,  for  the 
auditors,  who  resorted  to  the  spectacle  in  the  "meadow  above  the  stream," 
expressed  their  appreciation  nunc  silent es  nunc  cachinnantes.  When,  after  the 
reinstitution  of  the  festival  of  Corpus  Christi,  in  1311,  these  plays  began  to 
be  a  function  of  the  gilds,  their  secularization,  even  though  the  clerks  still  par- 
ticipated in  the  acting,  was  but  a  question  of  time  ;  and  the  occasional  injection 
of  crude  comedy  was  a  natural  response  to  the  civic  demand.  It  would  be 
erroneous,  however,  to  imagine  that  the  church  abandoned  the  drama  when 
the  town  took  it  up  :  the  church  maintained  a  liturgical  drama,  in  some  places, 
until  well  into  the  sixteenth  century  ;  and  as  late  as  1572  individual  clergy- 
men are  condemned  for  playing  interludes  in  churches. - 

If  the  writers  of  saints'  plays,  with  their  attempt  to  satisfy  the  yearning 
for  ideal  freedom  which  is  natural  in  all  times  and  places,  took,  in  their  fictions 
of  the  religious-marvellous,  a  step  towards  what  may  be  called  romantic 
comedy, — a  step  no  less  important,  though  nowadays  often  unnoticed,  was 
taken  toward  the  comedy  of  ridicule,  satire,  and  burlesque,  at  a  date  quite  as 
remote,  by  the  contrivers  of  religious  parodies.  It  is  curious,  though  not  at 
all  unnatural,  that  some  of  the  earliest  efforts  at  comic  entertainment  should 
proceed  from  the  revolt  against  ecclesiastical  formality  and  constraint.  I 
cannot  in  this  place  do  more  than  remind  the  reader  of  the  antiquity  of  three 
of  the  most  notable  of  these  dramatic  travesties  :  the  Feast  of  Fools,  the  elec- 
tion of  the  Boy  Bishop,  and  the  Feast  of  the  Ass.  The  first  of  these  was 
celebrated  on  the  Continent  as  early  as  1182,  one  may  say  with  reasonable 
certainty,  990.  It  is  indeed  more  than  a  conjecture  that  the  Feasts  of 
Fools  and  the  Ass  inherited  the  license  of  the  Roman  Saturnalia,  the  season 
and  spirit  of  which  were  assimilated  by  the  Christian  Feast  of  the  Nativity. 
Whether  adopted  by  the  church  in  its  effort  to  conciliate  paganism,  or  toler- 
ated for  reasons  of  secular  policy,  these  mock-religious  festivals  were  soon  the 
Frankenstein  of  Christianity  ;  and  it  was  doubtless  against  them  rather  than 
the  seductions  of  the  sacred  drama  that  most  of  the  ecclesiastical  prohibitions 
of  the  Middle  Ages  were  aimed.  With  its  necessary  comic  accessories,  the 
Feast  of  Fools  was  well  established  in  England  before  1226,  and  it  was  still 
Hourishing  in  I  ^90  when  Courtney  forbade  its  performance  in  London. 
"  The  vicars,"  he  said,  "and  clerks  dressed  like  laymen,  laughed,  shouted, 

1  In  Supp.  Dods.   Old  Plays,  Introd.  to  Chester  PIa\s,  ix.  ;  Latin  Stories,  p.   loo. 

2  An  Am^ucr  to  a  Certain  Libel,  CJJV.,  in  Collier,   II.    73. 


of  English  Comedy  xxi 

and  acted  plays  which  they  commonly  and  fitly  called  the  Feast  of  Fools." 
They  travestied  the  dignitaries  of  the  church,  they  turned  the  service  inside 
out,  put  obscenity  for  sanctity  and  blasphemy  for  prayer.  While  it  does  not 
appear  that  in  England,  as  on  the  Continent,1  the  procession  of  the  Boy  Bishop 
was  attended  with  frivolity  or  profanity,  it  was  certainly  celebrated  with  mum- 
mings  and  plays  of  suitable  kind,  not  altogether  serious.  This  ceremony  dates 
as  far  back  as  St.  Nicholas  day,  1229,  and  was  still  to  the  fore  in  1556. 
The  Feast  of  the  Ass  appears  to  have  been  recognized  by  the  church  as  early 
as  the  Feast  of  Fools.  I  do  not  know  when  it  was  introduced  into  England, 
but  it  was  played  upon  Palm  Sunday  as  late  as  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  In  France  it  had  been  notoriously  wanton  since  the  beginning  of 
the  thirteenth;  and  it  could  not  exist  anywhere  without  promoting  the  spirit 
of  burlesque  and  farce.  Although  the  initial  purpose  of  these  festivals  was  to 
satirize  the  hierarchy  and  ecclesiastical  convention,  they  applied  themselves 
after  they  had  been  repudiated  by  the  church  to  the  ridicule  of  social  folly  in 
general  ;  and,  according  to  the  descriptions  of  Warton,  Douce,  Hone,  Klein, 
Petit  de  Julleville,  and  others,  they  came  to  be  a  vivid  interpreter  of  the 
popular  consciousness,  a  most  potent  educator  of  critical  insight  and  dramatic 
instinct,  an  incitement  to  artistic  even  though  naive  productivity.  In  France, 
indeed,  the  Fraternities  of  Fools  produced  national  satirists  and  dramatic  pro- 
fessionals in  one.  In  England,  if  they  did  nothing  else,  they  helped  to  stimu- 
late a  taste  for  realistic  and  satiric  drama. 


2.   The  Miracle  Cycles  in  their  Relation  to  Comedy 

Miracle  plays  and  '  marvels,'  morals  too  as  we  soon  shall  see,  were  a  pro- 
pa?deutic  to  comedy  rather  than  tragedy.  For  the  theme  of  these  dramas  is, 
in  a  word,  Christian  :  the  career  of  the  individual  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
social  organism,  of  the  religious  whole.  So  also,  their  aim  :  the  welfare  of 
the  social  individual.  They  do  not  exist  for  the  purpose  of  portraying 
immoderate  self-assertion  and  the  vengeance  that  rides  after,  but  rather  the 
beauty  of  holiness  or  the  comfort  of  contrition.  Herod,  Judas,  and  Antichrist 
are  foils,  not  heroes.  The  hero  of  the  miracle  seals  his  salvation  by  accepting 
the  spiritual  ideal  of  the  community.  These  plays  contribute  in  a  positive 
manner  to  the  maintenance  of  the  social  organism.  The  tragedies  of  life  and 
literature,  on  the  other  hand,  proceed  from  secular  histories,  histories  of  per- 
sonages liable  to  disaster  because  of  excessive  peculiarity,  —  of  person  or 

1  As  early  as  1304  in  Hamburg:  Meyer,  Grscb.  d.  bamburg.  Scbu/-  und  Unterricbts- 
ivacm  im  Mhtclalter,  s.  197  :  cited  in  Creizenach,  I.  391. 


xxii  An  Historical  View 

position.  Whether  the  rank  of  the  tragic  hero  be  elevated  or  mean,  he  is 
unique  :  his  desire  is  overweening,  his  frailty  irremediable,  or  his  passion  un- 
restrained, —  his  peril  unavoidable;  and  in  his  ruin  not  the  principal  only,  but 
seconds  and  bystanders,  are  involved.  Tragedy,  then,  is  the  drama  of  Cain, 
of  the  individual  in  opposition  to  the  social,  political,  divine;  its  occasion  is  an 
upheaval  of  the  social  organism. 

While  the  dramatic  tone  of  the  miracle  cycle  is  determined  by  the  conser- 
vative character  of  Christianity  in  general,  the  nature  of  the  several  plays  is 
modified  by  the  relation  of  each  to  one  or  other  of  the  supreme  crises  in  the 
career  of  our  Lord.  The  plays  leading  up  to,  and  revolving  about,  the 
Nativity,  are  of  happy  ending,  and  were  doubtless  regarded,  by  authors  and 
spectators,  as  we  regard  comedy.  The  murder  of  Abel,  at  first  sombre, 
gradually  passes  into  the  comedy  of  the  grotesque.  The  massacre  of  the  in- 
nocents emphasizes,  not  the  weeping  of  a  Rachel,  but  the  joyous  escape  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  Child.  In  all  such  stories  the  horrible  is  kept  in  the  back- 
ground or  used  by  way  of  suspense  before  the  happy  outcome,  or  frequently 
as  material  for  mirth.  Upon  the  sweet  and  joyous  character  of  the  pageants 
of  Joseph  and  Mary  and  the  Child  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell.  They  are  of 
the  very  essence  of  comedy.  The  plays  surrounding  the  Crucifixion  and 
Resurrection  are,  on  the  other  hand,  specimens  of  the  serious  drama,  the 
tragedy  averted.  It  would  hardly  be  correct  to  say  tragedy  ;  for  the  drama 
of  the  cross  is  a  triumph.  In  no  cycle  does  the  consummatum  est  close  the 
pageant  of  the  Crucifixion  ;  the  actors  announce,  and  the  spectators  believe, 
that  this  is  "  goddis  Sone,"  whom  within  three  days  they  shall  again  behold, 
though  he  has  been  "  nayled  on  a  tree  unworthilye  to  die."  By  this  con- 
sideration, without  doubt,  the  horror  of  the  buffeting  and  the  scourging,  the 
solemnity  of  the  passion,  the  inhuman  cruelty  —  but  not  the  awe  —  of  the 
Crucifixion,  were  mitigated  for  the  spectators.  Otherwise,  mediaeval  as  they 
were,  they  could  have  taken  but  little  pleasure  in  the  realism  with  which  their 
fellows  presented  the  history  of  the  Sacrifice. 

To  indulge  in  a  comprehensive  discussion  of  the  beginnings  of  comedy  in 
England  would  be  pleasant,  but  I  find  that  I  cannot  compel  the  materials  into 
the  limits  at  my  command.  Accordingly,  since  the  miracle  cycles  (to  which 
Dodsley,  following  the  French,  gave  the  convenient,  but  un-English  and  some- 
what misleading,  name  of  'mysteries')  have  been  more  frequently  and  gener- 
ously treated  by  historians  than  those  other  miracles,  non-scriptural,  which  I 
would  call  '  marvels,'  and  the  no  less  important  popular  festival  plays  and 
early  farces,  and  'morals'  or  moral  and  '  mery  '  interludes,  it  seems  that,  in 
favour  of  the  latter,  I  should  defer  much  that  might  be  said  about  the  cycles 
u  "it'll  a  more  spacious  occasion. 


of  English  Comedy  xxiii 

The  manuscript  of  the  York  plays  appears  to  have  been  made  about  1430— 
40  ;  that  of  the  Wakefield,  or  so-called  Towneley,  toward  the  end  of  the  same 
century;  the  larger  part  of  the  N-to\vn,  or  so-called  Coventry,  in  1468  ;  and 
the  manuscripts  of  the  Chester  between  1591  and  1607.  The  last  are, 
however,  based  upon  a  text  of  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  or  the  end  of 
the  /ourteenth  century ;  and  there  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  some  of  the 
plays  were  in  existence  during  the  first  half  of  the  fourteenth.  A  tradition, 
suspicious  but  not  yet  wholly  discredited,  assigns  their  composition  to  the 
period  1267-76.  The  York  cycle,  according  to  Miss  Lucy  Toulmin 
Smith,  was  composed  between  1340  and  1350.  As  to  the  Towneley 
plays,  Mr.  Pollard  decides  that  they  were  built  in  at  least  three  distinct 
stages,  covering  a  period  of  which  the  limits  were  perhaps  1360  and  1410. 
While  the  composition  of  the  so-called  Coventry  (apparently  acted  by  stroll- 
ing players)  may  in  general  be  assigned  to  the  first  half  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, some  parts  give  evidence  of  earlier  date.  The  authenticated  dates  of  the 
representation  of  miracles  in  Coventry,  1392—1591,  I  prefer  to  attribute  not 
to  this  N-town  cycle,  but  to  the  Coventry  Gild  plays,  two  of  which  still 
exist.1  They  possess  no  special  importance  for  our  present  purpose.  The 
Newcastle  Shipwrights'  Play  is  the  much  battered  survivor  of  a  cycle  that  was 
in  existence  in  1426.  The  Ms.  of  the  three  Digby  plays  of  interest  to  us 
is  assigned  by  Dr.  Furnivall  to  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The 
subject  of  the  first  of  them,  the  Killing  of  the  Children,  is  of  early  dramatic 
use,  and  the  treatment  of  the  poltroon  knight  corresponds  suggestively  with 
Warton's  account  of  the  Christmas  play  given  by  the  English  bishops  at  the 
Council  of  Constance  in  1417.  The  two  Norwich  pageants  which  survive 
are  by  no  means  naive :  they  were  touched  up,  if  not  written,  during  the 
second  third  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Other  cycle  plays  which  might  be  enumerated  must  be  omitted,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Cornish.  These  were  written  in  Cymric,  apparently  some- 
what before  1300.  They  are  suggestive  to  the  historian  of  comedy  par- 
ticularly because  they  yield  no  faintest  glimmer  of  a  smile,  save  at  their 
exquisite  credulity  and  unconsciousness  of  art.  They  are  a  noble  instance  of 
the  sustained  seriousness  of  the  scriptural  cycle  in  its  early,  if  not  its  original, 
popular  stage,  and,  also,  of  that  familiar  handling  of  the  sacred  that  prepares 
the  way  for  the  liberty  of  the  comic. 

In  approaching  the  English  miracle  plays  we  notice  that,  as  in  the  Cornish, 
the  earliest  secular  form  of  the  older  cycles  was  principally,  if  not  entirely, 
serious.  Reasons  which  I  cannot  stay  to  enumerate  prove  that  comic  plays 

1  The  Shearmen  and  Taylors'  Pageant,  from  the  Annunciation  to  the  Flight  into  Egypt 
(Ms.,  1533),  and  the  Weavers'  Pageant  of  the  Presentation  in  the  Temple. 


xxiv  ^4n  Historical  View 

in  the  older  cycles  are  not  of  the  original  series,  and  that  humorous  pas- 
sages in  plays  of  the  older  series  are  of  later  interpolation.  Now,  so  far  as 
the  direct  effect  upon  the  comedy  of  Hey  wood,  Greene,  and  Shakespeare  is 
concerned,  it  may  appear  to  some  of  no  particular  importance  in  what  order 
the  cycles  in  general  were  composed  or  the  plays  within  the  cycles.  But  the 
Tudor  dramatists  did  not  make  their  art,  they  worked  with  what  they  found, 
and  they  found  a  dramatic  medium  of  expression  to  which  centuries  and 
countless  influences  had  contributed.  An  extended  study  of  the  beginnings 
of  English  comedy  should  determine,  so  far  as  possible,  the  relative  priority, 
not  only  of  cycles,  but  of  the  comic  passages  within  the  cycles  :  what  each 
composition  has  contributed  to  the  enfranchisement  of  the  comic  spirit  and 
the  development  of  the  technical  factors  of  the  art  ;  to  what  extent  each  has 
expressed  or  modified  the  realistic,  satirical,  romantic,  or  humorous  view  of 
life,  and  in  what  ways  each  has  reflected  the  temper  of  its  time,  the  manners 
and  the  mind  of  the  people  that  wrote,  acted,  and  witnessed.  If  I  arrange 
the  plays  that  bear  upon  the  development  of  comedy  according  to  my  con- 
clusions regarding  priority  of  composition,  the  order,  broadly  stated  for  our 
present  rapid  survey,  is  as  follows :  first,  the  Cornish  and  the  Old  Testament 
portions  of  the  Chester  and  Coventry ;  then  the  productions  of  the  second 
and  third  periods  of  the  York,  and,  closely  following  these,  the  crowning 
efforts  of  the  Towneley  ;  then  the  New  Testament  plays  of  the  Chester  and 
Coventry  ;  and,  finally,  the  surviving  portions  of  the  cycles  of  Digby  and 
Newcastle.  This  order,  which  is  roughly  historical,  has  the  advantage,  as  I 
perceive  after  testing  it,  of  presenting  a  not  unnatural  sequence  of  the  esthetic 
values  or  interests  essential  to  comedy  :  first,  as  a  full  discussion  would  reveal, 
the  humour  of  the  incidental  ;  then  of  the  essential  or  real,  and,  gradually,  of 
the  satirical  in  something  like  their  order  of  appearance  within  the  cycles  ; 
afterwards,  the  accession  of  the  romantic,  the  wonderful,  the  allegorical,  the 
mock-ideal  ;  and,  finally,  of  the  scenic  and  sensational. 

Of  the  significant  lack  of  humour  in  the  Cornish  plays  I  have  already 
spoken.  I  find,  though  I  may  not  stay  to  illustrate,  a  livelier  observation  and 
a  superior  faculty  of  characterization  and  construction  in  the  early  comic  art  of 
Chester  than  in  that  of  Coventry,  but  in  both  a  cruder  sense  of  the  humour  of 
incident  than  in  the  other  English  cycles.  In  the  York  cycle  there  are  fewer 
situations  that  may  be  called  purely  comic  than  in  the  Chester,  and  none  of 
these  occurs  in  the  oldest  plays  of  the  series  ;  but  for  its  other  contributions  to 
dramatic  art  and  its  relation  to  the  remarkable  productions  of  the  Wakefield  or 
Towneley  school  of  comedy  it  deserves  special  attention.  A  comparative 
study  of  its  versification,  phraseology  and  dramatic  technique,  leads  me  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  original  didactic  kernel  of  the  York  cycle  was  en- 


of  English  Comedy  xxv 

larged  and  enriched  during  two  well-defined  periods,  which  may  be  termed 
the  middle  and  the  later,  and  that  there  was  at  least  one  playwright  in  each  of 
these  periods  or  schools  who  distinctly  made  for  the  development  of  English 
comedy.  Of  the  middle  period,  to  which  belong  Cain,  Noah,  and  the  Shep- 
herds' P /ays,  the  playwright  or  playwrights  are  characterized  by  an  unsophisti- 
cated humour  ;  the  distinctive  playwright  of  the  later  or  realistic  period  is 
marked  by  his  observation  of  life,  his  reproduction  of  manners,  his  dialogue, 
and  the  plasticity  of  his  technique.  That  the  later  school  or  period,  to  which 
belongs  a  group  of  half  a  dozen  plays1  gathering  about  The  Dream  of  Pilate'' s 
Wife,  and  The  Trial  before  Herod,  was,  moreover,  influenced  by  the  manner 
of  its  predecessor  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  of  its  two  most  efficient  stan/.aic 
forms  one,  namely  that  used  in  The  Conspiracy,  is  anticipated  (though  in  sim- 
pler iambic  beat)  by  that  of  Noah,  the  typical  play  of  the  middle,  that  is  the  first 
comic,  school,2  while  the  other,  of  which  the  variants  are  found  in  The  Mor- 
tificacio  and  The  Second  Trial,  has  its  germ  more  probably  in  The  Cayme 
of  that  same  school  than  in  any  other  of  the  middle  or  of  the  earlier  plays.3 
With  these  two  stanzaic  forms  the  later  group,  so  far  as  we  may  conclude 
from  the  mutilated  condition  of  the  surviving  plays,  seems  to  experiment  ; 
and  the  second  of  them,  that  of  the  Mortificacio,  may  be  regarded  as  the  final 
and  distinctive  outcome  of  York  versification.  To  the  leading  playwrights 
of  each  of  these  schools,  —  the  former  the  best  humorist,  the  latter  the  best 
realist,  of  the  York  drama,  • — •  to  these  anonymous  composers  of  the  most  facile 
and  vivid  portions  of  the  York  cycle  our  comedy  owes  a  still  further  debt  ;  for 
from  them  it  would  appear  that  a  poet  of  undoubted  genius  derived  something 
of  his  inspiration  and  much  of  his  method  and  technique  —  our  first  great  comic 
dramatist,  the  Playwright  of  Wakefield. 

We  know  that  Wakefield  actors  sometimes  played  in  the  Corpus  Christi 
plays  of  York,  and  it  was  only  natural  that  the  smaller  town  should  borrow 
from  the  dramatic  riches  of  its  metropolitan  neighbour.  We  are,  therefore, 
not  surprised  to  find  in  the  Wakefield  cycle  a  number  of  plays  which  have 
been  taken  bodily  from  the  York  cycle.4  None  of  these  is  in  the  distinctive 
stanzaic  form  of  which  we  have  just  spoken  ;  but  imbedded  in  certain  other 

1  V.  XXVI.,  XXVIII.,  XXIX.,  XXX.,  XXXI.,  XXXIII.  ;  probably  XXXII.      Per- 
haps this   playwright  (if  we  may  use  the  singular)  rewrote   XXXIV.        I    think  he  remodelled 
XXXV.  and' XXXVI.,  in  the'old  metres. 

2  XXVI.,   The  Conspiracy,  and  IX.,  Noah,  —  aba  b  a  bab«  c  d  c  c  c  d3. 
8  XXX  V I . ,   The  Mortificacio,  —  a  b  a  b  b  c  b  c3  </'  e  e  c*  d3. 

VII.,   The  Cafme,  —  a  b  a  b  b  c4  ,/'  b  c  c*  </-'. 

4  Y.  XI..  W.  VIII.;  Y.  XXII.,  W.  XVIII.;  Y.  XXXVII.,  W.  XXV.  ;  Y. 
XXXVIII.,  W.  XXVI.  ;  Y.  XLVIII.,  W.  XXX.  For  particulars  see  Miss  Lucy  Toulmin 
Smith,  Pollard,  Hohlfeld'a  Die  Altenglhchen  Kollcktiivmistcricnt  Anglia  XI. 


xxvi  An  Historical  View 

Wakefield  plays *  that  in  other  respects  show  marks  of  derivation  from  earlier 
and  discarded  portions  of  the  York  cycle,  we  find  occasional  affiliated  forms  of 
the  distinctive  later  York  strophe  evidently  in  a  transitional  period  of  its  devel- 
opment. We  find,  furthermore,  passages  in  this  transitional  York  strophe  side 
by  side  with  Wakefield  stanzas  which  display  the  strophe  in  a  more  highly 
artistic  technique  than  anything  found  in  the  York.-  The  writer  of  the  per- 
fected York-Wakefield  stanza,  such  as  appears  in  the  Towneley  plays,  must 
have,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  been  influenced  by  the  middle  and  later 
York  schools  of  dramatic  composition.  This  fully  developed  outcome  of  the 
distinctive  York  stanza  of  the  later  school  is  found  in  the  guise  of  a  nine-line 
stanza  in  certain  Towneley  plays  which  we  see  reason  for  attributing  to  a 
Wakefield  genius,  and  which  we  shall  presently  consider.  Suffice  it  in  this 
place  to  say  that  of  the  Wakefield  stanza  the  first  four  lines,  when  resolved, 
according  to  their  internal  rhymes,  into  separate  verses,  run  thus  :  a  b  a  b  a  b  a  b2. 
If  to  this  we  add  the  cauda,  our  stanza  runs  a  b  a  b  a  b  a  b2  c1  d  d  d2  c2.  Some- 
times, indeed,  a  three-accented  line  occurs  among  the  first  eight,  showing  the 
more  plainly  that  this  thirteen-line  stanza  of  Wakefield  ( though  set  down  in 
nine  lines)  is  a  variant  or  derivative  of  the  thirteen-line  York  XXXVI.,  — 
a  b  a  b  b  c  b  c3  d'e  e  e2  d3.  And  that  in  itself  is,  as  I  have  already  said,  a 
refinement  upon  the  fourteen-line  stanza  of  the  earlier  comic  school  of  York, 
as  used  in  the  Noah.  Whether  the  rapid  beat  and  frequently  recurring  rhyme 
of  the  Wakefield  are  a  conscious  elaboration  of  the  York  or  a  happy  find  or 
accident,  the  stanzaic  result  is  an  accurate  index  to  the  superiority  in  spirit 
and  style  achieved  over  their  congeners  of  York  by  these  comedies  of  Wake- 
field. 

Now,  the  contiguity  of  what  is  undoubtedly  borrowed  from  the  York 
with  what  is  imitated  from  it  and  what  is  elaborated  upon  it,  is  strong  proof 
of  a  conscious  relation  between  these  Wakefield  productions  and  those  ol  York  ; 
and  since  the  work  of  the  poet,  especially  the  provincial  poet,  was  in  those 
days  (though  verse  forms,  like  air,  are  free  to  all)  likely  to  be  cast  in  a  fixed 
mould  —  his  favourite  metrical  and  strophaic  medium,  there  is  at  any  rate  a 
possibility  that  the  plays  and  portions  of  plays  in  the  Wakefield  cycle,  writ- 
ten in  this  fully  developed  and  distinctive  stanza,  were  the  work  of  one  man. 
When  we  examine  the  contents  of  the  plays  and  their  style,  we  find  that 
the  possibility  becomes  more  than  a  probability,  practically  a  certainty  ;  and  that 

1  Such  as  stanza    57  in  Wakefield   XXIX.   Ascension,  and   97-100   in   Wakefield   XX. 
Conspiracy. 

2  Cf.  stanzas  I  to  4  with  those  that  follow  in  Wakefield  XXII.,  Fflitgcllacio  ;  and  stanza  6 
of  Wakefield  XXIV.  with  those  that  precede  it;   and  stanza  58  of  Wakefield   XXIX.  with 
stanza    57. 


of  English  Comedy  xxvii 

being  so,  I  can  hardly  deem  it  an  accident  that  the  most  dramatic  portions  of 
the  Wakefield  cycle  show  so  close  an  external  resemblance  to  the  best  comic 
and  realistic  portions  of  the  York.  It  is,  then,  with  something  of  the  interest 
in  an  individual,  not  a  theory,  that  one  may  segregate  the  plays  and  bits  of 
plays  bearing  this  metrical  stamp,  look  for  the  personality  behind  them,  and 
attempt  to  discover  the  relation  of  the  Wakefield  group  of  comedies  to  its  fore- 
runners of  York. 

The  Wakefield  cycle  is  still  in  flux  when  its  distinctive  poet-humorist 
takes  it  in  hand.  Insertions  in  his  nine-line  stanza  are  found  in  one  '  of 
the  five  plays  derived  from  the  York  cycle.  Of  the  two  plays  which  show 
a  general  resemblance  to  a  corresponding  York,  one-  is  in  this  stanza, 
and  to  the  other3  a  dozen  of  the  stanzas  are  prefixed.  The  Fflagellacio 
(XXII.),  the  second  half  of  which  is  an  imitation,  sometimes  loose,  some- 
times literal,  of  York  XXXIV.  (Christ  Led  up  to  GWrrfry),  opens  with 
twenty-three  ot  these  stanzas,  —  nearly  the  whole  of  the  original  part.  One 
of  them,  No.  29,  is,  by  the  way,  based  upon  stanza  2  of  that  part  of 
York  XXXIV.  which  is  not  taken  over  by  the  Wakefield  play.  In  the  Wake- 
field  Ascension  (XXIX.),  which  adapts,  but  in  no  slavish  manner,  a  few  pas- 
sages from  the  York  (XLIII.),  we  find  two  of  this  playwright's  nine-line 
stanzas  ; 4  and  in  the  Wakefield  Crucifixion  (XXIII.),  which  has  some  slight 
reminiscence  of  York  XXXV.  and  XXXVI.,  we  find  one.  In  that  part  of  the 
Wakefield  less  directly,  or  not  at  all,  connected  with  the  York  cycle,  four 
whole  plays,5  the  Processus  Noe,  the  two  Shepherds'  Pla^s,  and  the  Buffeting, 
and  occasional  portions  of  other  plays0  are  written  in  this  stanza.  This  con- 
tribution in  the  nine-line  stanza  amounts  to  approximately  one-fourth  of  the 
cycle  ;  and,  allowing  for  modifications  due  to  oral  and  scribal  transmission,  is 
of  one  language  and  phraseology.  Not  merely  the  identity  of  stanza  and 
diction,  however,  leads  one  to  suspect  an  identity  ot  authorship  ;  but  the 
prevalence  in  all  these  passages,  and  not  in  others,  of  spiritual  characteristics 
in  approximately  the  same  combination,  —  realistic  and  humorous  qualities 
singularly  suitable  to  the  development  of  a  vigorous  national  comedy.  "If 
any  one,"  says  Mr.  Pollard,  "  will  read  these  plays  together,  I  think  he  can- 
not fail  to  feel  that  they  are  all  the  work  of  the  same  writer,  and  that  this 
writer  deserves  to  be  ranked  —  if  only  we  knew  his  name  !  —  at  least  as  high 
as  Langland,  and  as  an  exponent  of  a  rather  boisterous  kind  of  humour  had 

1XXX.   fudicium,  stanzas  16  to  48,  68  to  76. 

2  XVI.  Herod.  *  Stanza  57  might  just  as  well  be  arranged  like  s^tanxa  <;S. 

8  XX.  a,  Conspiracy.  !>  III.,   XII.,   XIII.,  XXI. 

6  Minor  passages  in  the  nine-line  stanza  are  II.,  35,  -56;  XXIV.,  1-^,56-59;  XXVII.,  4. 
Passage*  in  a  closely  similar  stanza  are  XXII.,  1-4;  XXIII.,  2;  XXVII.,  ;o. 


xxviii  d.n  Historical  View 

no  equal  in  his  own  day."  And,  speaking  of  the  Mactacio  Abel,  where  we 
lack  the  evidence  of  identity  of  metre,  this  authority  continues,  "  The  extraor- 
dinary youthfulness  of  the  play  and  the  character  of  its  humour  make  it  diffi- 
cult to  dissociate  it  from  the  work  of  the  author  of  the  Shepherds'  Plays,  and 
I  cannot  doubt  that  this,  also,  at  least  in  part,  must  be  added  to  his  credit."  J 

To  this  conclusion  I  had  come  before  reading  Mr.  Pollard's  significant 
introduction  to  the  Tow ne ley  Plays  ;  and  I  may  say  that  I  had  suspected  the 
Wakefield  master  in  the  Processus  Talentorum  as  well  ;  for  though,  with  the 
exception  of  some  insertions,  the  stanzaic  form  of  that  pageant  is  not  his 
favourite,  the  humour,  dramatic  method,  and  phraseology  of  the  whole  are 
distinctly  reminiscent  of  him.  In  the  revising  and  editing  of  the  Wakefield 
cycle  as  he  found  it  this  playwright  was  brought  into  touch  with  the  York 
schools  of  comic  and  realistic  composition.  What  he  derived  from  them 
and  what  he  added  may  be  gathered  from  a  comparative  view  of  the  related 
portions  of  these  cycles.  That,  however,  I  must  defer  until  another  time. 
The  best  of  his  plays  are  of  course  the  Noe  and  the  Secunda  Pastor  urn  ,• 
the  latter  a  product  of  dramatic  genius.  It  stands  out  English  and  alone, 
with  its  homespun  philosophy  and  indigenous  figures,  —  Mak  and  Gyll  and 
the  Shepherds, — its  comic  business,  its  glow,  its  sometimes  subtle  irony, 
its  ludicrous  colloquies,  its  rural  life  and  manners,  its  naive  and  wholesome 
reverence  :  with  these  qualities  it  stands  apart  from  other  plays  of  cycles  for- 
eign or  native,  and  in  its  dramatic  anticipations,  postponements,  and  surprises 
is  our  earliest  masterpiece  of  comic  drama.  A  similar  dramatic  excellence 
characterizes  all  this  poet's  plays,  as  well  as  the  insertions  made  by  him  in  other 
plays.  But  he  is  no  more  remarkable  for  his  dramatic  power  than  for  his  sen- 
sitive observation  and  his  satire. 

Of  the  realism  of  his  art  much  might  be  said.  To  be  sure,  we  cannot 
accredit  to  him  the  grim  photography  of  certain  plays  —  the  preparations  for 
the  crucifixion,  for  instance,  which  are  the  counterpart  of  scenes  in  the  York. 
But  the  Buffeting  proves  his  power  in  this  direction,  and  parts  of  the  Scourging 

—  each   a  genre    picture    on    a    background    of   horrors.      Of    conversations 
caught  from  the  lip  those  in   the  second  and  fourth  scenes   of  the  Processes 
Noe  are  his,  and  those  between  the  shepherds  in  Prirna  and  Secunda  Pastorum, 

—  all  of  them  unique.      So  also  the  description  of  the  dinners  in  these  Shep- 
herds'  P/a\'s :   the  boar's  brawn,  cow's  foot,   sow's  shank,   blood  puddings, 
ox-tail,  swine's  jaw,   the  good   pie,   "  all  a  hare  but  the  loins,"  goose's  leg, 
pork,  partridge,  tart  for  a  lord,  calf's  liver  "scored  with   the  verjuice,"   and 
good  ale  of  Ely  to  wash  things  down.      What  more  seasonable  than  the  after- 
thought of  collecting  the  broken  meats  for  the  poor  ?  what  more  naive  than  the 

1  The  Toivnelcy  Plays,  Introd.,  p.  xxii. 


of  English  Comedy  xxix 

light-spell  in  the  name  of  the  Crucified  just  preceding  the  angelic  announce- 
ment of  his  birth  ?  what  more  typical  of  unquestioning  faith  than  the  rever- 
ence of  these  "  Sely  Shepherds"  before  the  Saviour  Child,  the  simplicity 
and  acceptability  of  their  rustic  gifts  ?  This  is  the  fresh  and  sympathetic 
handling  of  a  well-worn  theme.  But  the  Wakefield  poet  is  no  sentimentalist  : 
his  anger  burns  as  sudden  as  his  pity.  Otherwhere  genially  ironical,  it  is  in  his 
revision  of  the  JuJicium  that  he  displays  his  full  power  as  a  satirist.  Here 
his  hatred  of  oppression,  his  scorn  of  vice  and  self-love,  his  contempt  of  sharp 
and  shady  practice  in  kirk  or  court,  upon  the  bench,  behind  the  counter,  or 
by  the  hearth  are  welded  into  one  and  brought  to  edge  and  point.  He  strikes 
hard  when  he  will,  but  he  has  the  comic  sense  and  spares  to  slay.  We  may 
hear  him  chuckling,  this  Chaucerian  "professor  of  holy  pageantry,"  as  he 
pricks  the  bubble  of  fashion,  lampoons  Lollard  and  "  kyrkchaterar"  alike, 
and  parodies  the  latinity  of  his  age.  When  his  demons  speak  the  syllables 
leap  in  rhythmic  haste,  the  rhymes  beat  a  tattoo,  and  the  stair/.as  hurtle  by. 
Manners,  morals,  folly,  and  loose  living  are  writ  large  and  pinned  to  the 
caitiff.  But  the  poet  behind  the  satire  is  ever  the  same,  sound  in  his  domestic, 
social,  political  philosophy,  constant  in  his  sympathy  with  the  poor  and  in 
godly  fear. 

Though  there  are  comic  scenes  of  some  excellence  in  the  later  Chester 
and  so-called  Coventry  plays,  they  add  little  to  the  variety  of  the  Wakefield. 
I  would,  however,  call  attention  to  a  few  other  comparatively  modern,  but, 
generally  speaking,  contemporaneous,  characteristics  of  these  and  the  remaining 
cycles :  the  foreshadowing  of  the  chivalrous-romantic  in  the  Joseph  and  Man- 
plays  of  York,  Wakefield,  and  especially  Coventry  ;  of  the  melodramatic  in 
the  wonder  and  mediaeval  magic  of  the  York  and  Chester  cycles,  and  again 
especially  in  the  Coventry  ;  of  the  allegorical  in  the  Coventry,  and  of  the 
burlesque  in  all  cycles  when  Pride  rides  for  a  fall  or  Cunning  is  caught  in 
his  own  snare. 

In  respect  of  the  sensational,  the  older  cycles  are  surpassed  by  the  surviv- 
ing plays  of  Newcastle  and  Digby  ;  so  also  in  the  increasing  complexity  of 
motive  and  interest.  These  Digby  plays  were  acted,  probably  one  by  one  in 
some  midland  village  from  year  to  year  during  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  maybe  somewhat  earlier.  They  are  of  interest,  not  only  because 
they  emphasize  the  sensational  element,  but  because  they  stand  half-way,  if  not 
in  time,  at  any  rate  in  spirit  and  method,  between  the  miracles  that  we  have  so 
far  discussed  and  the  moral  plays  of  which  we  shall  presently  treat.  The  Digby 
Killing  of  the  Children  of  Israel  lends  a  decided  impetus  to  the  progress  of 
the  comic  and  secular  tendencies  of  the  drama.  The  Herod  brags  as  usual, 
but  he  is  artistically  surpassed  in  his  metier  by  a  certain  miles  gloria  tus,  the 


xxx  An  Historical  View 

descendant  of  Bumbommachides  and  Sir  Launscler  Depe,  and  himself  the 
forerunner  of  Thersites  and  Roister  Doister,  and  countless  aspirants  for 
knighthood,  whose  valour  "  begynnes  to  fayle  and  waxeth  feynt "  under 
the  distaff  of  an  angry  wife.  Such  is  the  Watkyn  of  this  Digby  play. 
Both  here  and  in  the  Conversion  of  St.  Paul,  the  joyous  element  has  been 
enhanced,  as  Dr.  Furnivall  points  out,  by  the  introduction  of  dancing  and 
music.  In  the  Conversion  the  charm  supplied  by  the  ammoniac  Billingsgate 
of  Saul's  servant  and  the  ostler  adds  thrills  galore.  Saul,  "  goodly  besene 
in  the  best  wyse,  like  an  ^unterous  knyth,"  the  thunder  and  lightning,  the 
persecutor  felled  to  earth,  "  godhed  speking  from  hevyn,"  the  Holy  Ghost, 
the  "  dyvel  with  thunder  and  fyre  "  sitting  cool  upon  a  "  chayre  in  hell, 
another  devyll  with  a  fyervng,  cryeng  and  roryng,"  —  the  warning  angel, 
Saul's  escape,  —  there  is  sign  enough  of  invention  here.  To  be  sure,  these 
seductions  are  counterbalanced  by  a  didactic  on  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins, 
worthy  of  a  preceding  or  contemporary  moral  drama  ;  but  that  was  part  of 
the  bargain.  The  spectacular  plays  of  this  group,  especially  the  Mary  Mag- 
dalene, comic  and  didactic  by  turns,  denote  a  further  advance  in  a  still  dif- 
ferent direction.  They  portray  character  in  process  of  formation  :  the  rejec- 
tion of  former  habits  and  motives,  and  the  adoption  of  new,  the  resulting 
change  of  conduct,  and  the  growth  of  personality.  From  this  point  of 
view  Mary  Magdalene  is  a  figure  of  as  rare  distinction  in  the  history  of  ro- 
mantic comedy  as  the  Virgin  Mary,  —  perhaps  even  of  greater  importance. 
Interesting  as  the  sensational  elements  of  the  play  may  have  been,  and  novel  — 
the  vital  novelty  here  is  that  of  character  growing  from  within.  Wonderful 
as  the  career  of  the  virgin  mother  was,  —  an  essential  propaedeutic  to  that 
woman  worship  which  characterizes  a  broad  realm  of  Christian  romance,  — 
her  career  could  never  have  awakened  the  peculiar  interest,  dramatic  and 
humane,  that  was  stirred  by  the  legend  so  often  dramatized  of  the  wayward, 
tempted,  falling,  but  finally  redeemed  and  sainted  Mary  of  Magdala. 

With  regard  to  the  transitional  character  of  the  Digby  plays,  it  has  been 
maintained  that  this  particular  play,  combining  materials  of  the  biblical  miracle 
and  the  saint's  play  or  marvel,  approaches  more  nearly  than  any  other  of  the 
group  to  the  morals  and  moral  interludes,  because  of  the  prominence  of  the 
Sensual  Sins  in  the  dramatic  career  of  the  Magdalene.  Professor  Cushman, 
in  his  excellent  thesis  on  The  Devil  and  the  Vice,  even  asserts  that  the  down- 
fall of  the  heroine,  as  the  result  of  sensual  temptation  which  is  the  office  of 
seven  personified  deadly  sins  "  arayyd  lyke  vij  dylf,"  is  a  special  'develop- 
ment '  of  this  play.  I  can  hardly  go  so  far  :  the  church  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  Caxton's  Golden  Leg  en  a1  of  1483,  and  Voragine's  of  1270-90  had 
already  amalgamated  the  biblical  narratives  of  the  Mary  of  seven  devils,  Mary 


of  English  Comedy  xxxi 

of  Bethany,  and  the  woman  who  was  a  sinner.  In  fact,  the  suggestion  of 
the  'device,'  if  such  was  necessary,  is  contained  in  seven  consecutive  lines 
of  Caxton's  Life  of  the  Magdalene.  This  biblical  and  legendary  play  is, 
however,  undoubtedly  well  on  the  way  toward  the  drama  of  the  conflict 
of  good  and  evil  for  possession  of  the  human  soul.  And  this  appears,  as  the 
author  just  cited  has  pointed  out,  when  we  consider  a  later  work  on  the  same 
subject,  called  a  Moral  Interlude,  by  Lewis  Wager.  Although  the  Seven 
Deadly  Sins  no  longer  figure  as  such,  their  place  is  here  supplied  by  four 
characters,  —  Infidelitie  the  Vice,  and  his  associates,  Pride  of  Life,  Cupiditie, 
and  Carnal  Concupiscence, —  who,  arrayed  like  gallants,  instruct  the  Magda- 
lene in  their  several  follies,  and  are  themselves  all  "children  of  Sathan." 
These  later  Vices  are  nothing  other  than  selected  Deadly  Sins,  —  the  Pride, 
the  Covetyse,  and  the  Lechery  of  the  earlier  miracle  play. 


3.   The  Dramatic  Value  of  the  English  Miracle  Plays 

Taken  as  a  whole,  the  craft  cycle  possesses  the  significance,  continuity, 
and  finality  requisite  to  dramatic  art ;  taken  in  its  parts  or  pageants,  how- 
ever, it  presents  to  the  modern  reader  the  appearance  of  a  mosaic,  an  his- 
torical panel  picture,  or  stereopticon  show.  I  set  down  these  words,  "  the 
modern  reader,"  because  I  do  not  believe  that  the  audience  of  contemporaries 
was  aware  of  any  break  in  the  sequence  of  the  collective  spectacle.  This 
histrionic  presentment  of  the  biblical  narrative  lacked  neither  motive  nor 
method  to  the  generations  of  the  ages  of  belief.  For  them  the  history  of  the 
world  was  thus  unrolled  in  episodes  the  opposite  of  disconnected,  —  each  a 
hint  or  sign  or  sample,  a  type  or  antitype  of  the  scheme  of  salvation,  which 
was  itself  import  and  impulse  of  all  history.  No  serious  scene,  but  was 
confirmation  or  prophecy.  Characters,  institutions,  and  events  of  the  Old- 
Testament  drama  had  their  raison  d1  etre  not  only  in  themselves  but  in  the 
New  Testament  antitype  which  each  in  turn  prefigured.  No  profound  theo- 
logical training  was  needed  to  comprehend  each  symbol  and  its  significance,  to 
esteem  all  as  centring  in  the  Person  of  history,  in  the  sacrifice  and  atonement. 
And  still  it  is  largely  because  historians  have  failed  to  appreciate  the  scriptural 
training  of  our  ancestors  that  they  have  unfairly  emphasized  the  episodic  nature 
of  the  miracle  cycles,  at  any  rate  of  the  English. 

The  integral  quality  of  the  English  cycle  is  infinitely  superior  to  that 
of  the  French  ;  and  the  separate  plays  are  more  frequently  artistic  units. 
This  is  due,  among  other  things,  to  facts  long  ago  pointed  out  by  Ebert.1 

1  Die  cngincben  Myitericn,  "Jabrb.  rom.  u.  cng.  Lit.,  I.   153. 


xxxii  An  Historical  View 

The  smaller  stage  in  England,  which  in  turn  restricted  the  scope  of  the  play, 
made  it  impossible  to  split  up  the  action  into  two  or  more  parallel  movements, 
such  as  frequently  occupied  the  stage  in  France.  The  scene,  moreover,  was 
in  England  limited  to  earth,  save  when  the  plot  expressly  required  the  presen- 
tation of  heaven  or  hell.  It  very  rarely  required  all  three  at  once.  The 
conduct  of  the  English  play  is  therefore  less  dependent  upon  the  supernatural, 
and  the  persons  bear  a  closer  resemblance  to  actual  human  beings.  Neither 
plot  nor  character  is  distracted  by  the  irresponsible  intrusion  of  devils,  whereas 
these,  idling  about  the  French  stage,  frequently  turned  the  action  into  horse-play, 

—  if  the  fool  (likewise  absent  from  the  English  miracle)  had  not  already  turned 
it  into  a  farce  out  of  all  relation  to  the  fable.     The  comic  element  in  the  Eng- 
lish play  had  to  exist  by  virtue  of  its  relation  to  the  main  action  or  not  at  all. 
It  was  therefore  compelled  to  conquer  its  position  within  the  artistic  bounds  of 
the  drama.      The  comic  scenes  of  the  English  miracle  should  accordingly  be 
regarded,  not  as  interruptions,  nor  independent  episodes,  but  as   harmonious 
counterpoint  or  dramatic  relief.      Those  who  have  witnessed  in  recent  times 
the  reproduction  of  the  Seeunda  Pastorum  at  one  of  the  American  universities 
bear  testimony  to   the  propriety  and   charm,  as  well   as   the   dramatic  effect, 
with  which  the  foreground  of  the  sheep-stealing  fades  into  the  radiant  picture 
of  the  nativity.      The  pastoral   atmosphere  is  already  shot  with  a  prophetic- 
gleam  ,   the  fulfilment  is,  therefore,  no  shock  or  contrast,  but  a  transfiguration 

—  an  epiphany.      I  do  not  forget  that  a  less  humorous  analogue  of  the  Shep- 
herds' Play  exists  in  such  French  mysteries  as  that  of  the  Conception,  but  I  call 
attention  to  the   fact    that  by  devices,   technical    sometimes,  sometimes  naive, 
elaborated    through    the   centuries  in   response   to  the   demands    of  a   popular 
aesthetic  consciousness,  the  cycles,  preeminently  in  England,  acquired  a  deli- 
cacy and  variety  of  colour,  an  horizon,  and  an  atmosphere,  not  only  as  wholes, 
but  in  the  parts  contributing  to  the  whole. 

It  is,  therefore,  only  with  reservation  that  I  can  concur  with  what  one  of 
our  most  scientific  and  suggestive  historians  has  said  concerning  the  dramatic 
qualities  of  the  English  miracle  play  :  *  "In  the  mystery,  not  only  were 
the  subject  and  the  idea  unalterable,  but  the  way  in  which  the  subject  and 
idea  affected  each  other  was  equally  unchangeable.  The  power  of  ex- 
pression was  exceedingly  defective.  The  idea  in  the  finished  work  still 
seemed  to  be  something  strange  and  external  —  conception  and  execution 
did  not  correspond.  It  is  only  by  a  whole  cycle  that  the  subject  could 
be  exhausted,  and  this  cycle  was  composed  of  the  most  heterogeneous  ele- 
ments, and  is,  in  fact,  a  work  of  accident.  The  cycle  play  very  seldom 
formed  a  unit  or  whole  ;  it  seldom  contained  anything  that  could  be  called 

1  Ten  Brink,  Eng.   Lit.  II  :  i.   306. 


of  English  Comedy  xxxiii 

a  dramatic  action.  The  spectators  were  therefore  interested  only  in  the 
matter.  Only  a  few  details  made  any  aesthetic  effect  —  such  as  character, 
situation,  scenes;  the  whole  was  rarely  or  never  dramatic."  I  will  grant 
that,  since  the  subject  of  the  individual  pageant  was  prescribed  by  tradition, 
and  the  solution  of  the  dramatic  problem  already  fixed,  the  author  did  not  always 
penetrate  the  shell  of  his  story  and  assimilate  the  conception.  Consequently 
the  execution  has  frequently  the  faults  of  the  ready-made  suit  of  clothes :  it 
creases  where  it  should  fall  free  and  breaks  where  it  should  embrace.  As  the 
writer  is  not  expected  to  exercise  his  invention,  the  onlooker  estimates  the 
conduct  of  the  fable  as  a  spectacle,  not  as  a  revelation.  Many  of  the  miracles, 
therefore,  lack  the  element  of  dramatic  surprise,  and  almost  none  attempts 
anything  in  the  way  of  character  development.  This  is,  in  part,  because, 
severally,  the  plays  are  squares  of  an  historical  chessboard,  upon  which  the 
individual  —  king  or  pawn  —  is  merely  a  piece;  and  even  if  the  board  be  not 
historic,  the  squares  are  over  strait  for  the  gradual  deploy  of  motive  ;  many  of 
these  plays  are  scenes,  consequently,  and  limited  to  single  crises  of  an  indi- 
vidual life.  In  other  words,  the  character,  if  familiar,  is  regarded  as  an  instru- 
ment toward  a  well-known  end  ;  if  unfamiliar,  as  an  apparition  momentarily 
vivid.  Slight  opportunity  exists  for  interplay  of  incident  and  character,  for 
the  production  of  conduct,  in  short,  which  is  the  resultant  of  character  and  a 
crisis.  It  must  also  be  conceded  that,  since  each  play  was  the  dear  delight 
of  its  proprietary  gild  —  and  each  rare  performance  thereof  the  chance  that 
should  grace  these  craftsmen  ever  or  disgrace  them  quite  —  the  effort  of  actor, 
if  not  always  of  playwright,  was  towards  a  speedy  and  startling  effect,  such  as 
might  be  procured  by  the  extraneous  quality  of  the  show,  rather  than  by  the 
story  in  itself  or  in  its  relation  to  the  cycle. 

But  still  we  must  be  careful  not  to  generalize  from  a  play  here  and  there 
to  the  quality  of  a  cycle  as  a  whole  or  to  the  common  qualities  of  various  cycles. 
When  we  say  that  the  mysteries,  that  is,  the  scriptural  miracles,  possessed 
this,  that,  or  the  other  merit  or  defect,  to  what  area  and  what  object  does  the 
remark  apply  ?  Do  we  refer  to  all  the  extant  plays,  or  only  to  the  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  plays  in  the  five  cycles  that  may  be  called  complete  ?  Do  we 
draw  the  inference  from  a  majority  of  all  plays  that  might  fall  within  the  pur- 
view, or  from  the  plays  of  one  cycle,  or  from  a  majority  of  the  plays  in  that 
cycle,  or  from  a  single  striking  example  here  or  there  in  one  or  another  cycle 
or  fragmentary  collection  ?  Do  we  draw  the  inference  from,  or  apply  the 
conclusion  indiscriminately  to,  later  as  well  as  earlier  cycles  and  plays  ?  A 
generalization  from  the  Chester  does  not  pritna  facie  fit  the  Towneley,  nor 
does  a  dramatic  estimate  of  the  Coventry  characterize  the  isolated  miracle 
morals  of  the  Digby.  Between  the  composition  of  the  earliest  and  the  latest 


xxxiv  An  Historical  View 

of  the  Chester  plays  alone,  centuries  elapsed  ;  centuries  between  the  earliest 
Coventry  and  the  earliest  Digby  ;  generations  between  Chester  and  Coven- 
try plays  upon  the  same  subject,  and  generations  more  between  the  York  and 
Newcastle.  York  includes,  some  of  the  youngest  pageants  of  the  species  and 
many  of  the  oldest.  Towneley  is  generally  later  than  York  ;  but  it  some- 
times retains  an  original  which  York  had  long  ago  discarded  for  something 
more  modern.  Returning,  therefore,  to  Professor  ten  Brink's  generaliza- 
tion, we  must  submit  that  most  of  the  defects  which  he  lays  at  the  door  of  the 
cyclic  miracle  were  not  inherent  in  the  species,  but  incidental  to  the  period. 
Some  attach  to  the  crudeness  of  the  playwright,  some  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
audience  ;  they  no  doubt  attached  to  the  collective  "  morals  "  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  such  as  the  Paternoster  Pfay,  and  they  would  have  characterized 
plays  of  any  other  species  attempted  under  like  conditions.  The  best  miracle 
plays  are  as  mature  products  of  dramatic  art  as  the  best  of  the  allegorical  kind, 
except  in  one  point  only  —  the  development  of  character.  That  "the  sub- 
ject and  its  idea  should  be  unalterable  "  and  their  interrelation  fixed,  is  by  no 
means  a  peculiarity  of  the  scriptural  play,  but  a  characteristic  of  period  or 
place.  If  the  reader  will  cast  even  a  rapid  glance  by  way  of  comparison 
over  the  French  Corpus  of  mysteries  and  the  English,  he  will  observe  that  the 
scope  of  subjects  possible  to  a  religious  cycle  was  amenable  to  widely  different 
conditions  of  restriction,  selection,  and  enlargement,  and  that  the  treatment  of 
the  same  and  similar  subjects  was  infinitely  varied.  To  illustrate  at  length 
would  be  a  work  of  supererogation.  Everybody  knows  that  the  French  cycles 
have  plays  upon  subjects,  the  Job,  for  instance,  and  Tobias  and  Esther,1  not 
touched  by  the  English,  —  at  any  rate  when  in  their  prime;  and  that  the 
same  subject  or  episode  is  frequently  treated  in  a  way  dissimilar  to  the  Eng- 
lish. When  we  turn  to  details  we  note  likewise  the  independence  of  the 
playwright  :  none  of  the  English  plays  avails  itself,  for  instance,  of  Adam's 
difficulty  in  swallowing  the  apple,  though  the  incident  figures  both  in 
Le  Mister e  de  la  Nativite  and  that  of  the  Vtel  Testament ;  nor  of  the  attrac- 
tive possibilities  of  Reuben  and  Rachel's  maid,  Joseph  and  Potiphar's  wife, 
Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  and  many  another  conjunction  known  to 
all  readers  of  the  French  religious  play.  And  these  discrepancies  between 
national  cycles  hold  true  even  where,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Chester  plays, 
the  influence  of  the  French  mysteries  of  the  thirteenth  century  and  of  the 
later  collections  is  in  other  respects  evident.  Of  the  four  English  cycles, 
moreover,  each  does  not  select  exactly  the  same  subjects  for  its  pageants  as 
the  others,  —  Balaam  and  his  Ass,  for  instance,  appear  only  in  the  Chester, 

M   do  not  forget  that  belated    Tohias  at   Lincoln,   1564-66,  nor  the   Godly  QtcrH  Hestei 
of  1561  ;   but  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  case. 


of  English  Comedy  xxxv 

—  nor   do   all  introduce  the  same  incidents  in  the  handling  of  a  common 
subject. 

Professor  ten  Brink  is  by  no  means  alone  in  his  estimate  of  the  technical 
quality  of  the  English  scriptural  miracle,  but  I  must  say  that  the  estimate 
seems  to  me  to  be  hardly  up  to  the  deserts  of  the  species.  The  frequent 
absence  of  such  refinements  as  the  unities  of  time  and  place  was  of  the  essence 
both  of  play  and  period  ;  but  it  was  not  of  the  essence  of  the  miracle  cycle 
that  the  expression  should  be  detective,  or  that  conception  and  execution 
should  fail  to  correspond,  or  of  the  miracle  play  that  it  should  be  unable  eco- 
nomically and  adequately  to  develop  a  dramatic  action  and  produce  an  artistic 
whole.  It  may  be  an  insufficient  argument  to  say  that  the  plays  of  the 
Wakefield  dramatist  are  anything  but  defective  in  expression.  Let  us,  there- 
fore, be  somewhat  more  comprehensive  in  the  scope  of  inquiry.  I  have  gone 
carefully  through  the  four  English  cycles  with  Professor  ten  Brink's  censures 
in  mind,  and  I  conclude  that  at  least  twenty  of  the  individual  plays  have  cen- 
tral motive,  consistent  action,  and  well-rounded  dramatic  plot.  Indeed  I 
think  a  good  case  might  be  made  for  thirty.  That  would  be  to  say  that  one- 
fifth  of  the  miracles  of  the  great  cycles  were  artistic  units  in  themselves,  and 
must  have  interested  their  spectators,  not  alone  by  the  materials  displayed,  but 
by  a  subject  that  meant  something,  and  situations,  scenes,  and  acting  char- 
acters by  which  it  was  sometimes  not  at  all  unworthily  presented.  The 
inheritors  of  English  literature  will  indeed  carry  away  a  false  impression  of 
the  artistic  achievements  of  their  ancestors,  if  they  believe  that  in  spite  of  a 
development  of  five  hundred  years  the  miracle  play  was  "  rarely  or  never 
dramatic." 

Even  though  the  sacred  and  traditional  character  of  the  biblical  narrative 
must  have  exercised  a  restraint  upon  the  comic  tendencies  of  the  cyclic  poet 
not  likely  to  have  existed  in  the  case  of  the  writers  of  saints'  plays  and  single 
morals,  still  it  is  when  he  attempts  the  comic  that  the  cyclic  poet  is  most 
independent.  For  as  soon  as  plays  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  gilds, 
the  playwright  puts  himself  most  readily  into  sympathy  with  the  literary  con- 
sciousness as  well  as  the  untutored  aesthetic  taste  of  his  public  when  he  colours 
the  spectacle,  old  or  new,  with  what  is  preeminently  popular  and  distinctively 
national.  In  the  minster  and  out  of  it,  all  through  the  Christian  year,  the  towns- 
folk of  York  and  Chester  had  as  much  of  ritual,  of  scriptural  narrative,  and  tragic 
mystery  as  they  wanted,  and  probably  more  ;  when  the  pageants  were  acted, 
they  listened  with  simple  credulity,  no  doubt,  to  the  sacred  history,  and  with  a 
reverence  that  our  age  of  illumination  can  neither  emulate  nor  understand  ; 
but  with  keenest  expectation  they  awaited  the  invented  episodes  where  tradi- 
tion conformed  itself  to  familiar  life,  -  the  impromptu  sallies,  the  cloth-yard 


xxxvi  An  Historical  View 

shafts  of  civic  and  domestic  satire  sped  by  well-known  wags  of  town  or 
gild.  Of  the  appropriateness  of  these  insertions,  spectators  made  no  question, 
and  the  dramatists  themselves  do  not  seem  to  have  thought  it  necessary  to 
apologize  for  aesthetic  creed  or  practice.  The  objections  thereto  proceeded 
from  the  authorities  of  the  church,  but  the  very  tenor  and  tone  of  them  are  a 
testimony  to  the  importance  attained  by  the  comic  element  in  the  religious 
plays.  It  is  principally  the  "  bourdynge  and  japynge  "  which  attended  the 
"  pleyinge  of  Goddis  myraclys  and  werkes,"  that  called  forth  the  wrath  of 
the  sermon  that  I  have  already  cited  from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century.1 
And  it  was  for  similar  reasons  that  Bishop  Wedego-  ordered,  in  1471,  the 
suppression  of  both  passion  play  and  saints'  plays  within  his  continental  dio- 
cese. In  France,  indeed,  not  only  horse-play  characterized  the  performance 
of  the  mysteries,  but  absolutely  irrelevant  farces  invaded  them,  merely  afin  quc 
le  jeu  soit  mains  fade  et  plus  plaisans. 

I  have  alluded  to  the  distinctively  national  note  that  characterizes  the  comic 
contributions  to  the  sacred  plays,  and  I  find  that  my  opinion  is  confirmed  by 
the  examples  cited  by  Klein  and  Creizenach.  The  French  mystery  poets, 
while  they  develop,  like  the  English,  the  comic  quality  of  the  shepherd  scenes, 
introduce  the  drinking  and  dicing  element  ad  lib.,  —  and  sometimes  the 
drabbing  ;  they  make,  moreover,  a  specialty  of  the  humour  of  deformity,  a 
characteristic  which  appears  nowhere  in  the  English  plays.  The  Germans, 
in  their  turn,  elaborate  a  humour  peculiar  to  themselves,  —  elephantine,  prim- 
itive, and  personal.  They  seem  to  get  most  fun  out  of  reviling  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  Jews,  whose  dress,  appearance,  manners,  and  speech  they  caricature, 
—  even  introducing  Jewish  dramatis  persons  to  sing  gibberish,  exploit  cunning, 
and  perform  obscenities  under  the  names  of  contemporary  citizens  of  the 
hated  race.  In  general  a  freer  rein  seems  to  have  been  given  to  the  sacrile- 
gious, grotesque,  and  obscene  on  the  Continent  than  in  England.  In  the  Pas- 
sion of  A.  Greban  (before  1452),  Herod  orders  Jesus  into  the  garb  of  a 
fool  ;  and  in  some  of  the  German  plays  the  judges  dance  about  the  cross  upon 
which  the  Saviour  hangs.  Much  of  the  ribaldry  was  of  course  impromptu, 
and  on  that  account  the  more  grotesque  ;  as  in  the  story  related  by  Bebel  of 
how  a  baker  playing  the  part  of  Christ  in  the  Processus  Cruets  bore  the  gibes 
of  his  tormentors  with  admirable  composure,  until  one  actor  Jew  insisted 
upon  calling  him  a  corn  thief,  —  "Shut  up,"  retorted  the  Christ,  "or 
I'll  come  down  and  break  your  head  with  the  cross."  There  is,  of  course, 
an  occasional  license  in  the  English  plays,  such  as  the  dance  about  the  cross 
in  the  Coventry  ;  but  the  excess  of  ribaldry,  grotesquerie,  and  diablerie  does 
not  assault  the  imagination  as  in  the  continental  mysteries. 

1  Re/.  Ant'iq.  II.  43. 


of  English  Comedy  xxxvii 


4.   The  Contribution  of  Later  "  Marvels  "  and  Early  Secular  Plays 

The  advance  which  remained  to  be  made  upon  the  quality  of  play  pre- 
sented in  the  miracle  cycle  before  England  could  have  an  artistic  comedy  were 
threefold  :  Jirst,  from  the  collective  to  the  single  play  ;  second,  from  the 
reproduction  of  traditional  or  accidental  events  to  the  selection  of  such  as 
possessed  significance  and  continuity  ;  and  third,  from  the  employment  of 
the  remote  in  material  and  interest  to  the  employment  of  the  immediate  and 
familiar. 

To  attribute  to  the  allegorical  play  all  improvements  that  were  made  in 
this  transition  is  a  mistake.  Some  steps  in  the  right  direction  were  already 
necessitated  by  the  popular  demand,  and  had  been  taken  by  the  later  miracle 
plays  before  the  allegorical  drama  had  itself  passed  out  of  the  experimental 
stages,  — by  the  Digby  Magdalene,  for  instance.  In  that  play,  the  dramatic 
management  of  a  plot,  invented  and  romantic  rather  than  scriptural  in  its 
nature  and  interest,  and  the  portrayal  of  commonplace  events  and  characters 
side  by  side  with  the  occasion?!  allegory,  are  evidence  not  only  of  contem- 
porary taste,  but,  as  Mr.  Courthope  has  said,  of  an  artistic  approach  to  the 
representation  of  fables  of  simple  secular  interest.  The  play,  in  fact,  bears  a 
close  resemblance  to  and  was  apparently  influenced  by  the  popular  life  of 
St.  Mary  Magdalene  which  appeared  in  Caxton's  translation  of  1483  of  the 
Golden  Legend,  —  or  perhaps  by  the  French  edition  which  Caxton  follows, 
or  the  original  of  Yoragine.  In  the  St.  Paul  of  the  Digby  collection  we  note 
a  similar  fusion  of  secular  and  legendary  material,  and  an  imaginative  handling 
of  the  plot.  Although  the  dramatist  has  buried  his  opportunities  of  psycho- 
logical invention  in  the  apostle's  homily  upon  the  deadly  sins,  he  has  at  the 
same  time  crossed  the  border  of  the  "moral  play"  rich  with  psychological 
opportunity.  In  the  same  direction  of  advance  various  steps  had  also  been 
taken  by  other  saints'  plays,  purely  legendary,  like  the  Sancta  Katharina 
already  mentioned,  and  by  such  a  '  marvel  '  as  the  Sacrament  Play,  or 
Miracle  of  the  Host,  which  we  shall  presently  describe.  A  movement  in 
advance  had,  moreover,  been  made  by  our  early  secular  drama,  which  com- 
prised, besides  the  farce  interlude  prepared  by  scholars  for  profane  consump- 
tion, like  the  Interludium  de  Clerico  ct  Purlin,  certain  popular  festival  plays, 
for  instance,  the  Hox  Tuesday  and  Robin  Hood,  and  plays  of  saints  turned 
national  heroes  like  St.  George  and  St.  Edward. 

Concerning  the  plays  of  the  miracles  of  saints  I  have  already  expressed 
the  belief  that,  whether  these  workers  of  marvels  got  off  with  their  lives  or 
not,  the  representations  in  which  they  figured  were,  generally  speaking,  of  the 


xxxviii  An  Historical  View 

essence  of  comedy  :  the  persistent  optimism  which  in  the  end  routs  the  spectres 
of  temptation,  persecution,  and  unbelief.  This  would  hold,  with  even  greater 
probability,  of  the  purely  legendary  miracles,  the  nature  of  which  is,  of  course, 
that  of  popular  religious  thought  and  faith  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  is  embalmed 
for  us  in  the  Golden  Legend,  in  Eusebius  and  St.  Jerome,  and  other  writers 
from  whom  the  legend  was  derived.  In  spite  of  their  exceeding  interest, 
these  legendary  saints'  plays  and  pageants  can  be  considered  in  this  place  only 
with  brevity  ;  but  in  order  that  the  reader  may  better  appreciate  the  variety 
of  their  subjects  and  the  extent  of  the  period  over  which  they  were  acted,  I 
subjoin  a  list  of  some  that  we  know  to  have  been  presented.1 

I  have  little  doubt  that  the  romantic  combination  of  tragic,  marvellous,  and 
comic  later  noticeable  upon  the  Elizabethan  stage  was  in  some  degree  due  to 
the  ancient  and  continuous  dramatization  of  the  irrational  adventures,  blood- 
curdling tortures,  and  dissonant  emotions  afforded  by  the  legends  of  the  saints. 
These  'marvels,'  moreover,  must,  because  of  their  early  emancipation  from 
ecclesiastical  restraints  and  their  adoption  by  the  folk,  have  contributed  to  the 
development  of  the  freely  invented,  surprising,  and  amusing  fable  which  is 
congenial  to  comedy.  That  we  have  not  more  notices  of  them  is  owing,  not 
to  their  insignificance  nor  to  any  disappearance  before  the  advancing  popu- 
larity of  the  craft  cycles,  for  even  the  pageants  of  the  saints  still  flourish  in 
Aberdeen  as  late,  as  1531,  and  the  plays  elsewhere  much  later,  but,  as  Ebert 
has  already  noted,  to  the  fact  that  they  were  seldom  presented  with  the  mag- 
nificence and  publicity  of  the  cyclic  miracles  ;  but  whenever  a  saint's  play  is 
taken  up  by  a  city  or  gild,  it  enjoys  frequent  official  notice  and  maintains  its 
dignity  for  years. 

Passing  to  the  marvel  or  miracle  of  the  Host,  we  notice  that  only  one 
in  our  language  has  survived.  This  Play  of  the  Blyssyd  Sacrament  bears 
the  name  of  one  of  the  East  Midland  Croxtons,  and  it  was  composed  between 
1461  and  1500.  Although  some  critics  have  a  low  opinion  of  the  play,  I 
venture  to  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  most  important  in  the  early  history  of  Eng- 

1  St.  Katharine  (  Dunstable  c.  lioo,  Coventry,  1490)  ;  St.  George  (1415  and  later)  ; 
St.  Laurence  (Lincoln,  1441)5  St.  Susanna  (Lincoln,  1447);  St.  Clara  (Lincoln,  14^5); 
St.  Edward  (Coventry,  1456  and  later);  St.  Christian  (Coventry,  1504);  St.  Christina 
(Bethersden  in  Kent,  1522)  ;  Sts.  Crispin  and  Crispinian  (Dublin,  1528)  ;  St.  0/ai-e  (London, 
1557).  Some  of  these  were  church  plays,  like  the  St.  0/at'f  j  some,  like  the  St.  Katharine, 
were  school  plays  ;  some,  craft  plays,  like  the  St.  Crispin.  It  is  hard  sometimes  to  distinguish 
between  the  play  and  the  mumming  or  the  mute  pageant ;  to  the  dumb  show  may  be  assigned 
some  of  the  St.  Georges  and  the  pageants  of  Fabyan,  Sebastian,  and  Botulf,  displayed,  in  I  $64,  by 
the  religious  gild  of  Holy  Trinity  (St.  Botolph  without  Aldersgate).  For  some  conception  of 
the  frequency  and  vitality  of  such  shows  one  need  only  turn  to  Hone,  Stow's  Suri'e}-,  the 
Records  of  Aberdeen,  Toulmin  Smith's  English  Gilds,  the  History  of  Dublin,  Davidson's 
English  M\ster\-  I'/nys,  and  other  books  of  this  kind. 


of  English  Comedy  xxxix 

lish  comedy.  The  subject,  the  desecration  by  Jews  of  a  wonder-working 
Wafer  and  the  discomfiture  and  ultimate  conversion  of  the  offenders,  is  popular 
in  the  legend  of  the  later  Middle  Ages.1  With  ours  a  Dutch  Sacrament  Play, 
written  about  the  year  I  500  by  Smeken  and  acted  in  Breda,  naturally  calls 
for  comparison  ;  but,  though  the  latter  exhibits  the  miraculous  power  of  the 
Host  and  has  a  certain  diabolic  humour,  it  lacks  altogether  the  realism,  the 
popular  reproduction  of  Jewish  malignity,  and  the  effective  close  of  the  Crox- 
ton.  The  Croxton  avails  itself  of  the  possibilities  of  the  subject.  The  idea 
has  a  significance  ;  the  plot  possesses  legitimate  motive,  due  proportions,  unity 
ethical  and  aesthetic  ;  and  the  conclusion  is  happy.  The  mood,  by  turns 
serious  and  comic,  and  the  dramatis  persona',  various  and  well-characterized, 
combine  to  furnish  a  most  diverting  drama  of  the  wonderful,  horrible,  elevated, 
and  commonplace.  Colic's  announcement  of  his  master  the  leech,  "  a  man  oft" 
alle  syence,"  who  "  syttyth  with  sum  tapstere  in  the  spence,"  is  excellently 
ironical ;  and  Master  Brundych  himself,  like  the  doctor  in  the  St.  George  plays, 
must  have  furnished  a  figure  exactly  suited  to  the  popular  taste.  Nor  is 
the  realism  confined  to  the  intentionally  comic  scenes  ;  but  it  is  as  vividly 
successful  in  the  corruption  of  Aristorius  by  Jonathas  and  in  the  futile  and 
richly  avenged  efforts  of  the  Jews  to  torture  the  Host.  Here  certainly  was  a 
play  adapted  to  meet  the  demands  of  its  time, — exhibiting  closer  affiliation 
with  the  folk  than  with  church  or  patron  or  school,  acted  perhaps  by  strolling 
players,  an  unforced  product  of  the  artistic  consciousness  ;  a  play  which, 
though  it  dealt  with  a  sacred  subject,  still  focussed  itself  in  a  single  plot,  dis- 
carded all  material,  sacred  or  historical,  not  available  for  its  purpose,  com- 
pleted an  alliance  with  the  natural  and  the  familiar,  and  emphasized  the 
comic  realities  of  life.  No  miracle,  cyclic  or  individual,  no  allegorical  drama, 
and  no  secular  play  of  the  same  or  previous  date  excels  the  Croxton  in  dra- 
matic concept  and  constructive  skill.  Without  the  mediation  offered  by  such 
Croxton  plays,  the  English  drama  would  have  had  "  old  "  bridging  the  space 
between  miracles,  marvels,  and  morals  of  the  earlier  time  and  the  comedy  of 
Shakespeare. 

The  consideration  of  our  early  farce  interludes  may  be  conveniently  post- 
poned for  the  present  in  favour  of  the  more  popular  plays,  or  shows,  with 
which  our  forefathers  celebrated  festival  occasions.  Of  the  pageants  in  honour 
of  royal  entries,  to  which  reference  has  already  been  made,  it  is  impossible  to 
say  more  here  than  that,  developing  gradually  into  dramatic  spectacles,  and  at 
the  same  time  retaining  their  symbolic  character,  they  must  have  contributed 
to  the  taste  for  allegorical  plays,  the  moral,  and  the  moral  interlude.  If  we 

1  German  ballads  on  the  subject  in  1337  and  1478.  A  case  similar  to  the  material  of  this 
drama  is  assigned  to  1478  in  Train's  Gcscb.  J.  jfutlcn  in  Rcgemburg,  pp.  i  16-1  i  -. 


xl  An  Historical  View 

turn  to  the  secular  shows  presented  on  regular  festivals,  such  as  May-day, 
Hox  Tuesday,  and  the  Eve  of  St.  John  and  St.  Peter,  while  we  may  at  once 
conclude  that  they  were  less  efficient  as  dramas  than  some  of  which  we  have 
spoken,  such  as  the  Sacrament  play,  they  have  the  advantage,  from  our  pres- 
ent point  ot  view,  of  indicating  more  directly  the  nature  of  popular  demand  and 
the  primitive  conditions  of  popular  art.  Indeed,  Dodsley  regards  the  mum- 
mers who  commonly  acted  them  as  the  earliest  genuine  comedians  of  England. 
Of  such  disguisings,  masks,  and  mummeries  there  is  evidence  in  the  Ward- 
robe Accounts  of  1389,  according  to  which  a  company  of  twenty-one  men 
was  disguised  as  the  Ancient  Order  of  the  Coif  for  a  play  before  the  king  at 
Christmas  ;  and  of  other  mummings  —  not  satiric  nor  in  mockery  of  church 
ritual,  but  genial  —  we  have  mention  in  Stow  and  citations  in  Warton  and 
Collier  that  take  us  to  the  first  half  of  the  fourteenth  century.  They  doubt- 
less existed  much  earlier,  though  I  do  not  think  that  they  anticipated  the 
parodies  of  sacred  rites  or  the  ecclesiastical  saints'  plays. 

Naturally  a  much-loved  figure  in  festival  games  was  Robin  Hood,  and  that 
some  kind  of  drama  was  made  out  of  the  ballads  surrounding  him  is  proved 
by  a  Ms.  fragment  of  1475  or  earlier  of  Robin  Hood  and  the  Knight,  and  a 
play  of  Robin  Hood  and  the  Curtal  Friar  with  a  portion  of  Robin  Hood  and 
the  Potter,  printed  by  Copland,  in  1550,  as  "very  proper  to  be  played  in 
May-games."  *  These  May-games  occurred  not  only  in  May,  but  June,  and 
gave  employment  to  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  the  Nine  Worthies  (at 
whom  Shakespeare  poked  fun  in  Love' s  Labour's  Lost},  the  morris-dance, 
with  its  Lords  and  Ladies  of  the  May,  giant,  hobby-horse,  and  sometimes 
devils,  as  well  as  to  Robin  and  Little  John,  Maid  Marian,  and  Friar  Tuck  ; 
and  they  were  popular  through  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  perhaps 
even  earlier.  If  we  may  trust  old  Fenn's  editing,  Sir  John  Paston  wrote  in 
1473  of  a  man  whom  he  had  kept  for  three  years  to  play  "  Seym  Jorge  and 
Robyn  Hod  and  the  ShryfF  off  Nottingham."  There  may  be  even  earlier 
mention  of  such  plays.  For,  with  all  deference  to  the  best  of  authorities, 
Professor  Child,  I  cannot  but  think  that  when  Bower  wrote,  between  1441 
and  1447,  of  the  popular  "comedies  and  tragedies"  of  Robertas  Hode  et 
Litill  Johanne,  he  had  reference  to  acted  plays,  since  he  took  pains  to  specify 
in  his  account  of  them  the  mimi,  as  well  as  the  bardani  who  chanted  them. 
These  entertainments,  he  says,  were  then  more  popular  than  any  other,  and 
it  is  only  natural  to  suppose  that  they  had  existed  long  before  his  time.  The 
earliest  mention  of  Robin  in  England  is  in  Piers  Plowman,  \  377,  and  then  as 
the  subject  of  a  ballad  ;  but,  as  Warton  long  ago  pointed  out,  pastoral  plays 
of  Robin  et  Marion  had  been  given  in  France  upon  festival  occasions  before 

1  Child,  Eng/iib  and  Scotch  Popular  Ballads,  vol.   III.,  pp.  44,  90,   127,   114. 


of  English  Comedy  xli 

the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Although  there  appears  to  he  no  similarity 
between  the  incidents  of  Adam  de  la  Halle's  comic  opera  of  1283  upon 
Robin  and  his  Marion  and  the  English  stories,  and  although  we  are  ignorant 
of  the  nature  of  the  spring  game,  or  play,  of  the  same  title,  which  was  already 
an  annual  function  in  Anjou,  in  I  392,  the  principal  characters  and  conditions  of 
life  in  the  two  series  are  sufficiently  similar  to  suggest  a  connection  by  deriva- 
tion or  common  source.  It  such  connection  exist,  it  is  not  impossible  that 
some  kind  of  Robin  pageant  or  play  was  known  in  England  earlier  than  we 
ordinarily  think.  The  ballad  plays,  at  any  rate,  had  attained  popularity  long 
before  an  artistic  level  was  reached  by  the  allegorical  drama,  and  while  yet 
the  craft  cycles  were  in  their  prime.  Stow,  in  respect  of  Mayings,  which  he 
leads  us  to  believe  were  common  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.,  says  that  the 
citizens  of  London  "did  fetch  in  May-poles  with  divers  warlike  shows,  with 
good  archers,  morris-dancers,  and  other  devices  for  pastime  all  the  day  long  ; 
and  towards  the  evening  they  had  stage-plays  and  bonfires  in  the  streets." 
Robin  Hood  and  his  archers  are  the  heart  of  a  Maying  devised  under 
Henry  VII.  in  i  505  and  for  Henry  VIII.  in  1516;  and  the  archers  of  the 
Maying  in  the  time  of  Henry  VI.  are  suggestive  of  the  Robin  Hood  as  an 
accepted  figure  for  some  kind  of  pageant  in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
when  Bower  was  writing  of  "comedies  and  tragedies,"  mentioned  above. 
The  pageants  and  probably  the  plays  of  Robin  Hood  are  still  alive  in  the 
seventeenth  century  and  later.  Their  dramatic  quality  was  of  a  very  primitive 
sort,  but  the  plot,  wherever  existent,  displayed  sequence  of  motive  and  effect. 
The  popular  dramatist  had,  as  in  the  Sacrament  play  and  saints'  plays,  learned 
how  to  magnify  a  hero  by  making  him  the  pivot  of  the  action,  how  to  interest 
the  spectators  in  the  affairs  and  manners  of  their  own  class,  how  to  produce 
a  comic  effect  by  means  of  dialogue,  as  well  as  by  the  humour  of  the  situation. 
But  he  knew  nothing  of  the  development  of  character,  and  in  that  respect, 
without  doubt,  was  inferior  to  the  contemporary  author  of  the  moral  play. 

Passing  the  Hox  Tuesday  play,  of  which  we  cannot  be  sure  that  it  was 
anything  more  than  a  crude  and  entirely  serious  representation  of  the  historic 
massacre  which  it  commemorated,  and  of  which  no  adequate  account  survives, 
we  may  turn  with  profit  to  the  most  popular  and  long-lived  of  English  festival 
dramas,  the  St.  George  play.  Of  this  Mr.  Halliwell-Phillipps  says  that 
numerous  versions  are  used  in  the  north  of  England,  and  that  they  are  doubt- 
less a  degraded  form  of  an  old  "  mystery."  l  Of  course,  he  means  legendary 
miracle  or  saint's  play.  Ward  more  accurately  describes  this  rural  drama  as  a 
combination  of  miracle  and  processional  pageant.  As  the  latter,  it  appears 

1  In  his  introduction,  Contributions  (o  Early  English  Popular  Literature,  London,  1849, 
privately  printed. 


xlii  An  Historical  View 

frequently  to  have  formed  part  of  a  mumming  or  disguising,  and  was  early 
associated  with  the  morris-dance  of  May-day  or  Christmas.  The  first  indubi- 
table mention  of  a  St.  George  pageant  is  in  1416,  and  would  appear  to  refer  to 
a  "splendid  dumb  show"  rather  than  a  play,  which,  as  Caxton  tells  us,  was 
presented  for  the  entertainment  of  Emperor  Sigismund  of  Almayne  when  he 
"brought  and  gave  the  heart  of  St.  George  for  a  great  and  precious  relique  to 
King  Harry  the  fifth."  It  is,  however,  more  than  probable  that  the  soldier 
saint  had  figured  in  saints'  plays,  and  in  popular  play  and  pageant,  long  before 
this  time.  He  had  been  honoured  in  the  eastern  church  even  in  the  fourth 
century,  and  in  England  there  had  been  churches  and  monasteries  devoted  to 
him  before  the  Norman  invasion.  On  account  of  his  fabled  services  in  the 
crusade  he  was  already  the  patron  of  individual  knights,  and  orders  of  chivalry 
and  even  of  kingdoms,  when  Edward  III.,  in  the  years  1348-50,  built  the 
chapel  in  his  honour  at  Windsor,  confirmed  him  as  the  saint  and  champion  of 
England  and  instituted  the  order  that  still  bears  his  name.  It  is  likely,  indeed, 
that  the  ludi  exhibited  before  the  same  monarch  at  Christmas,  1348,  were  to 
some  extent  of  St.  George,  for  we  read  that  the  dragon  figured  extensively  in 
them.2  And  it  would  appear  that  when,  in  1415,  the  23d  April,  St.  George's 
Day,  was  "  made  a  major  double  feast  and  ordered  to  be  observed  the  same  as 
Christmas  day,  all  labour  ceasing,"  his  play  was  no  new  thing.  From  that  time 
on,  at  any  rate,  the  procession  of  St.  George  was  one  of  the  "  pastimes  yearly 
used,"  of  which  Stow  tells  us  that  they  were  celebrated  "with  disguisings, 
masks,  and  mummeries."  Gilds  were  organized  in  his  name,  and  the  cere- 
mony of  '  Riding  the  George  '  spread  over  England.  When  Henry  V. 
visited  Paris,  in  1420,  he  was  appropriately  welcomed  with  a  St.  George 
show,  and  the  saint  appears  again  in  a  pageant  of  1474  performed  at  Coventry 
in  honour  of  young  Prince  Edward.  We  have  already  mentioned  Sir  John 
Paston's  reference  to  the  play  in  1473.  A  long-winded  and  serious  German 
dramatization  of  the  legend  exists  in  an  Augsburg  manuscript  of  the  end  of  the 
same  century.  In  all  probability  the  expensive  miracle  play  of  the  saint  that 
was  acted  in  the  croft  or  field  at  Bassingbourne  in  Cambridgeshire,  in  1511,  was 
of  the  same  didactic  kind,  but  enlivened  by  impromptus  of  the  villagers  who 
took  part.  St.  George  and  the  dragon  were  features  of  the  May-games  at 
London,  evidently  in  procession,  as  late  as  1559.  There  appears  in  War- 
burton's  list  a  play  of  St.  George  for  England,  by  Wentvvorth  Smith,  of  the 
first  quarter  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  that  century, 
a  droll  called  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  was  by  way  of  being  acted  at  Bar- 
tholomew Fair.  The  play  seems  from  an  early  date  to  have  been  performed 
on  the  occasion  of  other  festivals  besides  that  of  the  Saint  himself. 

1  Collier,   Hist.,  vol.  I.,  p.  29.  -  Warton,   //.  K.   P.,  vol.  II.,  p.  72. 


of  Eng/is/i  Comedy  .  xliii 

The  versions  of  the  play  best  known  of  recent  years  are  the  Oxfordshire, 
acted  during  the  eighteenth  century  and  taken  down  from  an  old  performer 
in  1853,  and  the  Lutterworth  (Leicestershire)  Christmas  play,  acted  as  late 
as  1 863.*  Professor  Child,  in  his  Ballads,  mentions  another,  which  was 
regularly  acted  on  All  Souls'  Day  at  a  village  a  few  miles  from  Chester.  1 
would  call  attention,  in  addition,  to  four  others  of  interest  ;  the  Derbyshire 
Christmas  play,"  acted  by  mummers  as  late  as  1849,  which  is  fuller  than  any 
other  and  appears  to  me  to  retain  traces  of  a  fifteenth-century  original  ;  the 
two  Bassingham  (Lincoln  )  Christmas  plays, •'  182],  and  the  Shetland  play  from 
a  1788  Ms.,  recounted  in  Scott's  novel  of  The  Pirate.  The  last  three  make 
the  connection  between  the  St.  George  play  proper  and  the  sword  play,  which 
was  undoubtedly  common  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  of  which 
the  Revesby  version  of  1779  is  still  extant.4 

The  following  is  the  outline  of  the  Derbyshire  play  :  Enter  Prologue,  who 
is  apparently  the  same  as  "noble  soldier,"  "Slasher,"  or  "Jack,"  to  clear 
a  way  for  St.  Gay.  —  Enter  St.  Gay,  announcing  himself  with  proper  bombast, 
pretending  that  "from  England's  ground  he  sprung  and  came,"  and  stating 
his  purpose,  which  is  to  find  King  George.  —  Enter  King  George,  "  in  search 
of  his  enemy,"  St.  Gay,  who  as  "a  stranger,  exposed  and  in  danger,"  calls 
upon  Slasher  for  help.  —  With  loud  words  Slasher  threatens  King  George, 
who  in  his  turn  boasts  of  "  close  escapes,"  giants  and  dragons  subdued,  and 
the  King  of  Egypt's  daughter  won. — They  fight,  and  Slasher  "tumbles 
down  and  dies." — Enter  Doctor,  who  has  "  travelled  "  imaginatively  and  can 
"fetch  any  dead  man  to  life  again."  He  begins  with  Slasher,  who  signalizes 
his  recovery  by  summoning  the  "Black  Prince  of  Paradise,  black  Morocco 
king,"  to  renew  the  fray.  —  "  Here  am  I,"  cries  that  hero  ;  it  was  I  who 
"slew  those  seven  Turks,"  and  it  is  I  who  now  will  "jam  King  George's 
giblets  full  of  holes,  And  in  those  holes  put  pebble  stones  !  "  George  doubts 
the  Black  Prince's  ability,  even  though  he  be  a  "champion's  squire," 
they  are  about  to  fight,  when  Prologue  intervenes  with  "  Peace  and  Quietness 
is  the  best,"  and  "  Enter  in,owld  Beelzebub  !  "  That  personage  on  entering 
turns  out  to  be,  in  dress,  a  kind  of  Devil  and  Vice  combined,  in  spirit  a  kind 
of  Father  Christmas  summoning  all  to  drink.  —  This  queer  jumble  is  worth 
more  space  than  I  can  afford  it.  Just  a  word  or  two  in  passing.  St.  Gay  is 
given  up  by  Halliwell-Phillipps  as  an  "addition  to  the  calendar  not  noticed 

1  Repr.    in    Manly's   Specimens;    the   former   from    Notes  and  Queries,   Fifth   Series,    II. 
503—505  ;  the  latter  from  Kelly's  Notices  of  Leicester, 

2  Halliwell's  Contributions  to  E.   Kng/.   Lit. 
8  British  Museum,  Add.  Mss.    33,418. 

4   Repr.  Manly,  Specimens  from  Folk  Lore  Journal,  VII.   338—353. 


xliv  -An  Historical  View 

elsewhere."  But  one  observes  that  his  squire  is  a  foreigner,  as  his  name 
;md  garb  both  proclaim,1  and  that  he  is  the  squire  of  a  champion..  This 
limits  us  to  the  three  foreign  champions  of  Christendom,  and  from  St.  Gay's 
second  speech  we  discover,  not  only  that  he  is  San  Diego  of  Spain,  but  (un- 
less I  am  gravely  mistaken)  that  some  author  of  the  various  generations  of 
authors  of  this  play  had  acquaintance  with  Caxton's  Golden  Legend  of  1483, 
where,  in  the  Life  of  St.  James  the  More,  we  find  the  original,  in  oddly 
similar  terms,  of  one  altogether  unintelligible  phrase  used  by  this  English  make- 
shift for  a  Spanish  champion.2  Further  not  very  definite  but  suggestive  simi- 
larities with  the  Life  of  St.  George  add  to  the  presumption  that  the  Caxton 
translation  of  the  Legenda  Aurca  underlies  portions  of  this  folk  play.  Of 
course  a  play  of  the  martyrdom  of  St.  George  may  have  existed  earlier  still,  but 
if,  as  would  seem  to  be  the  case,  Voragine  invented  the  dragon,  that  monster 
cannot  have  played  a  part  before  1270—90  ;  it  does  not  play  a  part  even  in 
the  South  English  Legendary  of  i  285,  but  is  prominent  in  Caxton's  narrative. 
With  the  play  just  described  the  Lutterworth  is  identical  in  some  seven  or 
eight  passages,  and  save  that  there  is  no  Black  Prince,  and  that  a  Turkish 
Champion  takes  the  place  of  St.  Gay,  the  principal  characters  are  the  same. 
The  introduction  of  Beelzebub  and  a  clown,  with  remarks  appropriate  to  each, 
would,  however,  indicate  that  this  part  of  the  play  is  earlier  than  the  amalga- 
mated Beelzebub-clown  of  the  Derbyshire.  Both  plays  preserve  reminiscences 
of  the  crusades.  As  to  the  Oxfordshire,  I  can  say  only  that  it  is  a  rigmarole 
from  history,  legend,  and  nursery  tale,  culminating  in  the  destruction  of 
the  dragon  (or  Old  Nick)  and  the  appearance  of  Father  Christmas.  The 
Bassingham  plays  present  the  stock  characters,  but  little  of  the  original  story. 
They  add  elements  of  scandal  and  love,  however, — the  former  in  connec- 
tion with  Dame  Jane,  who  tries  to  fasten  the  paternity  of  her  child  on  a 
"  Father's  Eldest  Son,  And  heir  of  all  his  land  ' ' ;  and  the  latter  in  connection 
with  a  Fair  Lady,  who  is  wooed  by  Eldest  Son,  Farming  Man,  Lawyer,  Old 
Man,  and  refuses  them  all,  in  the  end  apparently  to  accept  the  Fool.  This 
part  of  the  story  is  a  link  between  the  St.  George  plays  and  the  sword-dance 
plays,  as  is  also  the  Shetland,  where  St.  George  himself  sustains  the  part  of 
principal  dancer.  In  the  Rcvesby  sword-dance  play,  acted  in  1779  by  mor- 
ris-dancers, the  Fair  Lady  of  the  Bassingham  reappears  as  Cicely  to  refuse 

1  Stow  speaks  of  mummers,   "  with   black    visors,    not   amiable,  as   if  legates   from    some 
foreign  prince." 

2  Cf.    "Two    balls  (i.    e.   bulls']  from    yonder   mountain   have    /<;/</   me    quite   /<>7i>,"    with 
Golden  LegentJ,  vol.   IV.,  p.    10-5,  Temple  Classics  ed.       There  is  no  such  close  similarity  in  the 
language  of  the    Karly   South    Knglish    Legendary,    Laud    Ms.,  Seint    leme,  and   Seint   George 
(Horstmann,  Ed.  E.  E.T.S.,  1887). 


of  English  Comedy  xlv 

Pepper-breeches,  "My  father's  eldest  son,  And  heir  of  all  his  land," 
Ginger-breeches,  Blue-breeches,  the  Knight  of  Lee,  and  Pickle  Herring,  the 
Lord  of  Pool,  in  favour  of  Rafe  the  Fool.  Though  the  phraseology  of  the 
Bassingham  and  Revesby  is  occasionally  the  same,  the  latter  is  utterly  removed 
from  the  St.  George  original  save  in  the  mention  of  dragon  and  worm  which 
accompany  the  morris-dancers.  How  far  back  the  Revesby  sword-dance  play 
may  date  I  do  not  know.  The  dance  was  common  on  the  continent  in  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  a  similar  performance  with  a  lool  in  the 
middle  is  recorded  as  taking  place  in  Ulm  in  1591.  The  name  of  the  merry- 
andrew,  Pickle  Herring,  may  possibly  take  us  back  to  the  first  quarter  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  For,  as  is  well  known,  it  is  the  usual  designation  for  the 
clown  in  the  1620  collection  of  plays  acted  by  the  so-called  English  come- 
dians in  Germany.  According  to  Crcizenach,1  the  character  was  introduced  by 
Robert  Reynolds,  who  was  perhaps  himself  the  Robert  Pickclharing  mentioned 
in  connection  with  an  entertainment  given  at  Torgau  in  1627.  Floegel  and 
Ebeling  speak  of  "  der  alte  Pickelhering  aus  der  Moralititaten  des  fiinfzehnten 
Jahrhunderts,"  as  if  he  were  the  "old  Vice";  but  surely  without  justifica- 
tion. I  know  of  no  mention  ot  Pickle  Herring  before  1620,  and  since  he 
still  held  the  stage  in  Lo  wen's  Priaz  Pickelhering,  about  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  it  is  not  impossible  that  the  character  was  borrowed  by 
the  English  sword  play  at  a  comparatively  recent  date.  The  continuance  of 
the  Devil  and  his  relation  to  the  clown  in  these  plays  are  a  subject  of  his- 
torical interest,  but  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  say,  as  Halliwell-Phillipps  has 
said  of  the  Beelzebub,  that  either  of  them  is  "a  genuine  descendant  of  the 
Vice." 

Perhaps  I  should  not  have  stayed  to  make  these  remarks,  but  they  will,  I 
hope,  direct  attention  to  a  phenomenon  unique  in  the  history  of  English  drama. 
The  St.  George  play  is  an  example  of  how  a  legendary  miracle,  sacred  in  its 
origin,  may  pass  into  a  folk  drama  of  a  national  hero,  and  that  again  degen- 
erate into  a  mumming  or  dance  ;  and  how  this,  oblivious  of  the  original  plot 
and  finally  of  all  fable,  may  first  transform  the  saintly  hero  into  a  performer  in 
a  sword  dance,  as  in  the  Shetland  play,  and  then,  as  in  the  Revesby,  elimi- 
nate even  him  and  substitute  a  fool.  Both  literary  career  and  literary  indig- 
nity of  this  kind  have  been  escaped  by  the  other  national  saint  of  England, 
Edward  the  Confessor.  In  earlier  days  he  figured  in  frequent  pageants,  rec- 
ords of  which  are  preserved,  for  instance,  in  the  Old  Leet  Book  of  Coventry, 
of  the  years  1456  and  1471,  but  he  readily  gave  way  to  St.  George  and  dis- 
appeared from  the  dramatic  horizon. 

1  Scbausfitle  </.  en^l.   fComSJiatttcn,  Mini.  XCIV. 


xlvi  An  Historical  View 


5.   The  Devil  and  the  Vice 

The  nexus  between  the  comic  qualities  of  the  miracle  plays  and  those  of 
the  morals  cannot  well  be  made  without  some  discussion  of  the  roles  of  the 
Devil  and  the  Vice.  The  treatise  which  I  have  before  cited,1  and  which 
appears  to  me  fairly  conclusive,  shows  that  the  Devil  of  the  English  stage  is 
originally  a  creation,  not  of  folk  mythology,  but  of  theology.  He  is  concrete, 
to  be  sure,  in  accordance  with  scriptural  and  legendary  tradition,  but  in  the 
'  mysteries  '  his  character  is  almost  entirely  serious,  not  ludicrous,  as  appears 
to  be  vulgarly  reported.  The  association  of  the  genuinely  comic  or  satirical 
with  the  conception  of  the  Devil  is  first  evident  in  later  representations  of  that 
character,  and  then  only  in  the  case  of  lesser  denizens  of  the  lower  world. 
The  humorous  scene  in  the  Chester  Harrowing  between  the  demons  and  the 
alewife  abandoned  in  hell  is,  for  instance,  as  Dr.  Deimling  has  said,  a  late  inter- 
polation. The  Wakefield  dramatist's  contribution  to  the  Judicium,  of  Tuti- 
villus and  his  ilk,  is  about  the  only  diabolic  humour  in  the  miracles  ;  and 
that  the  satirical  speech  of  the  Coventry  demon  in  the  Conspiracy  was  a  still 
later  borrowing  from  Tutivillus,  I  have  but  little  doubt.  To  credit  the 
Devils  of  the  earliest  miracles  with  a  tendency  and  an  ability  to  criticise  man- 
ners and  morals  would  be  just  as  wrong  as  to  attribute  to  them  a  buffoonery 
which  accrues  only  at  a  later  date.  Of  the  Mephistophelian  style,  more 
serious  than  Chaucer's  and  more  satirical  than  Langland's,  we  have  no  his- 
torical trace  before  the  witty  Devil  of  Wakefield  —  or  his  maker.  The 
humour  of  the  miracle  Devils  shows  itself  in  bombastic,  grotesque,  or  abusive 
language,  rather  than  in  anything  of  comic  utterance  or  incident.  The 
uproarious  laughter  caused,  according  to  tradition,  by  this  character  cannot, 
therefore,  have  depended  upon  the  lines  of  the  dramatist,  except  in  so  far  as 
those  consist  of  threats,  objurgation,  profanity,  and  the  like.  There  is  little  in 
the  asides  of  the  printed  page,  or  in  the  rare  addresses  of  the  Devil  to  his 
audience,  or  the  deportation  of  souls  to  hell  -  to  account  for  amusement. 
Rewfyn,3  Rybald,  and  Tutivillus  are  the  only  humorous  devil-names  in  the 
five  cycles  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  ;  and  of  the  shouting  and  fire- 
works in  which  we  are  told  the  infernal  spirits  were  wont  to  indulge,  we  find 
scarcely  any  mention  except  in  the  plays  concerning  the  fall  of  the  angels  and 
the  harrowing  of  hell.  That  the  merriment  of  the  crowd  \vas  provoked  by 

1  L.  W.  Cushman,    The  Devil  and  the  Fice,  Halle  a.  S.,   1900. 

2  I  remember  only  Herod  and  Antichrist  outside  of  the  Dighy  plays  and   of  the  Cornwall 
cycle  (where  the  devils  act  as  chorus  and  carry  oft"  everything  in  sight),  and  the  souls  of  those 
already  damned  who  are  claimed  by  the  devils  of  the  Townelcy. 

3  Whether  the  Rewfyn  and  Leyon  of  the  Co.  were  Devils,  I  have  my  doubts. 


of  English  Comedy  xlvii 

the  appearance  and  antics  of  the  Devil  —  that  is  to  say,  by  the  improvisation 
of  the  actor  —  and  his  raids  upon  the  spectators  is  natural  to  infer.  The 
dramatists  themselves  did  not  provide  for  close  association  between  the  spirits 
of  hell  and  living  men.  The  Devil  addresses  the  audience  but  seldom,  and 
then,  perhaps,  to  threaten  with  his  club.  In  fact,  the  Devil  of  the  old 
miracles,  as  we  usually  conceive  him,  is  an  anachronism  created  by  certain 
historians  of  the  drama  ;  the  buffoon  roaring,  pyrotechnic,  and  familiar, 
springs  into  prominence  only  with  the  Digby  plays,  and  is  but  slowly  de- 
veloped in  the  moral  plays  and  interludes.  Though  the  aspiring  angels  of 
the  York  and  Chester  plays  "go  down"  in  actual  fact,  and  the  Lucifer  of 
the  former  cycle  complains  of  heat  and  smoke,  there  is  no  mention  of  hell- 
mouth  in  the  account-books  before  1557,  nor  in  the  stage  directions  of 
the  Digby1  before  we  reach  the  Digby  Paul  and  Magdalene  Mss.  of  about 
1480-90;  and  even  then  the  entries  appear  to  be  the  insertions  of  some  later 
hand.  In  these  plays  the  flames  of  hell-mouth,  the  fireworks,  and  thunder 
are  distinctive  accessories  of  the  Devil's  presence.  Still,  it  is  not  in  a  miracle 
play  after  all,  but  in  a  moral  —  the  Ca stell  of  Perseverance  (about  1400)  — 
that  the  first  stage  direction  of  this  nature  is  found.  In  the  transitional 
miracle  morals,  Paul,  Wisdom,  Magdalene,  the  Devil  by  his  own  account 
as  well  as  by  stage  direction  "  rores  and  cries."  He  was  abusive  in  the 
Caste//  of  Perseverance ;  but  in  the  later  morals  or  moral  interludes  he 
"rores  and  cries"  for  mere  fun  —  in  the  Lusty  Juvcntus,  for  instance,  the 
Disobedient  Child,  and  All  for  Money. 

Concerning  the  Devil  even  of  this  later  birth,  many  false  conceptions,  due 
to  insufficient  research,  have  obtained  currency.  It  is  commonly  imagined 
that  he  was  the  mainspring  of  the  play,  that  he  came  into  close  contact  with 
human  beings,  that  he  represented  phases  of  human  character,  that  he  was  a 
comical  figure,  — jester,  or  "  roister,"  or  butt,  —  and  that  he  held  some  fixed 
relation  to  the  Vice,  who  was  "his  constant  attendant,"  says  Malone. 
But  the  Devil  was  the  principal  personage  only  in  the  earliest  of  the  morals 
that  survive,  he  rarely  associated  with  mankind,  and  he  assumed  the  human 
role,  such  as  that  of  judge  or  sailor,  only  once  or  twice.5  In  the  moral  plays 
not  more  than  four  or  five  comic  Devils  are  extant  —  the  Titivillus  of  Man- 
kynd,  the  Beelzebub  of  the  Nigromansir,  the  Lucifer  of  Like  wil  to  Like, 
and  the  Devil  of  All  for  Money  ;  and  the  last  of  these  is  the  only  roysterer  of 
the  lot,  one  of  the  very  few  to  serve  as  butt  for  the  Vice.  Such  jokes  as  that 
of  the  Devil  taking  "  a  shrewd  boy  with  him  "  from  the  audience  in  Wisdom 

1  Furnivall,   Dig/>\   I'/avs,  p.  43  ;    ten   Brink,    Gescb.    cngl.    Lit.,    II.    320,  and   Sharp's 
Dissertation  on  the  Co.  Mysteries,    1825. 

2  In  the  Nigromansir,  and  the  Shipwrights'  Play  of  Newcastle. 


xlviii  An  Historical  View 

are  interpolations,  and  it  is  only  after  the  moral  has  passed  its  zenith  that, 
as  in  Like  wil  to  Like  and  the  early  comedy  Friar  Bacon,  the  Devil  carries 
off  the  Vice-clown.  As  early  as  1486—1500  the  moral  play,  Nature,— 
called,  when  printed  in  i  538,  a  goodly  interlude,  —  dispenses  with  the  Devil 
altogether,  and  from  that  time  on  the  character  appears  only  in  some  half- 
dozen  extant  plays  of  the  kind  and  its  derivatives,  and  is  subordinate.  Towards 
the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  however,  the  Devil  is  revived,  and  in  come- 
dies of  concrete  life  and  character  he  frequently  swaggers  as  a  blusterer  or 
comic  personage  :  in  Grim  the  Collier,  for  instance,  in  the  Knack  to  know  a 
Knave,  and  His  trio- Mastix,  as  well  as  seventeenth-century  plays  like  The 
Devil  is  in  It  and  The  Devil  is  an  Ass.  I  have  said  that  his  office  in 
the  genuine  moral  was  not  comic,  neither  was  it  satirical.  It  consisted  largely 
in  directing  or  commissioning  his  agents,  the  Vices.  Professor  Cushman,  who 
makes  this  statement,  further  points  out  that  this  conception  of  the  Devil  did 
not  develop  in  any  popular  sense,  nor  gain  in  variety  in  the  English  moral 
plays  ;  but  that  the  case  is  altogether  dissimilar  in  the  German  and  French 
drama  of  the  same  period,  where  the  devils  are  not  only  numerous,  but 
carefully  differenced  as  representatives  of  the  various  foibles  of  mankind,  — 
a  role  which  was  assumed  in  England,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  by  the 
Vice. 

Between  the  detached,  and  sometimes  serious,  Devil  of  the  cycles  and  the 
Vice  of  the  moral  plays,  ever  present,  dominant  and  comical,  concrete  in  mani- 
fold person  and  guise,  a  middle  or  transitional  position  is  occupied  by  the  fiend 
of  the  later  miracle  and  the  demon  of  the  earlier  moral.  Examples  of  the 
former  are  Tutivillus  and  his  humorous  associates  in  the  Wakefield  Judicium, 
Lord  Lucifer  of  the  Coventry  Council  (who,  like  the  Vice,  euphemizes  his 
attendant  Deadly  Sins),  the  Prynse  of  Dylles  of  the  Magdalene,  and  the  sailor 
devil  of  the  Newcastle  play  ;  examples  of  the  latter  are  the  gunpowder  Belial 
of  Perseverance,  the  intriguing  Lucifer  of  Wisdom,  now  in  "  devely  aray," 
anon  as  a  "  prowde  galaunt,"  the  farcical  and  efficient  Titivillus  of  Mankind, 
and  Beelzebub,  the  judge  and  buffoon  of  the  Nigromansir.  But  though  the 
demon  of  the  morals  bears  some  relation  to  his  predecessor  of  the  miracles,  he 
is  not  borrowed  from  the  miracles.  He  grows  out  of  a  common  tradition. 

Just  as  the  Devil  persists  in  spite  of  lapse  and  change  through  miracle  play, 
moral,  and  interlude  into  Elizabethan  comedy,  so  the  Vice,  though  he  did  not 
obtain  so  early  a  footing  upon  the  stage.  There  are  previsions  of  him  in  the 
later  miracles  and  earlier  morals  ;  he  flourished  in  the  morals  of  the  middle 
period  and  the  moral  interludes,  and  there  are  traces  of  him  in  the  regular 
comedy.  He  disappeared  only  in  deference  to  the  differentiated  humours, 
follies,  or  vices  of  social  life,  of  which  no  controlling  Folly  or  Vice  may  be 


of  English  Comedy  xlix 

regarded  as  the  sole  incarnation, —  for  in  the  culture  of  them  each  of  us 
indulges  a  genius  of  his  own. 

The  term  Vice  is  not  used  as  the  designation  of  a  stock  dramatic  character 
till  the  appearance  of  Hey  wood's  Play  of  the  Wether  and  Play  of  Love, 
before  or  about  1532.  It  is  next  employed  in  Respublica,  1553,  and  Jacke 
Jugeler,  1553—61.  These  and  similar  notices  of  that  period,  however, 
occur  only  on  title-pages  of  plays  or  in  lists  or  stage  directions.  The  earliest 
mention  of  the  Vice  in  the  text  of  a  play  is  found  in  King  Darius,  \  565. 
It  is  not  until  1567,  with  the  Horestes,  that  we  find  the  designation  "  used 
consistently  throughout,  in  the  title,  the  list  of  players  and  the  rubric."  J 
But  whether  the  generic  name  of  Vice  was  introduced  by  the  authors  of  these 
plays,  or,  as  is  more  likely,  by  the  actors,  it  was  a  well-known  designation 
of  a  stock  figure,  especially  in  the  moral  drama  from  1530  onward  ;  and  from 
that  time  was  used  by  publishers  to  advance  the  interest  of  certain  plays. 
Since,  however,  the  idea  of  the  Vice  seems  to  be  inseparable  from  that  of  the 
moral  play,  the  character  had  achieved  a  prominence  long  before  it  was 
listed  as  a  generic  designation.  Collier  defines  the  moral,  or  moral  inter- 
lude, as  "A  drama  the  characters  of  which  are  allegorical,  abstract,  or 
symbolical,  and  the  style  of  which  is  intended  to  convey  a  lesson  for  the 
better  conduct  of  human  life."  And  the  differencing  quality  of  the  moral  is, 
as  Mr.  Pollard  has  said,  "  the  contest  between  the  personified  powers  of  good 
and  evil  for  the  possession  of  a  human  soul.  As  the  allegorical  representatives 
of  the  good  were  the  Seven  Cardinal  Virtues,  so  the  representatives  of  the 
evil  were  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  and  their  master  the  Devil."  From  these 
Seven  Deadly  Sins  or  Vices,  the  Vice  par  excellence  of  the  morals  and  inter- 
ludes is  without  doubt  descended.  With  the  opinion  of  Ward  and  Douce, 
however,  that  he  is  proved  to  be  of  native  English  origin,  I  cannot  unreserv- 
edly concur  ;  nor  with  a  statement  in  the  thesis  to  which  I  have  already 
referred,  that  the  Germans  and  French  had  no  Vice,  but  used  instead  the 
"differentiated"  devil.  Idleness,  a  Vice,  though  not  so  called,  appears  in 
the  French  Bien-Avise  et  Mal-Avise  (c.  1439),  about  as  early  as  any  Vice 
appears  in  English  drama  ;  and  the  four  confederates  of  the  Devil  in  U  Homme 
Pecheur,  Desperation,  etc.,  perform  the  office,  though  they  have  not  the 
designation,  of  Vice.  The  Hypocrisie  and  Simonie  of  Gringoire's  attack 
upon  U  Homme  Ob s tine  (Julius  II.),  about  1512,  are  as  true  representatives 
of  the  Vice  as  are  the  corresponding  figures  in  The  Nigromansir,  Tbrie 
Estatis,  Kyig  Joban,  Respublica  and  Conflict  of  Conscience. 

To  understand  the  relations  between  the  Vice  and  the  moral  play  one 
should  turn,  if  there  were  opportunity,  to  the  manifold  representations  of  the 

1  Cushman,  p.  66, 


1  An  Historical  View 

World,  the  Flesh,  the  Devil,  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  and  similar  allegorical 
figures  in  medieval  literature  of  other  kinds  than  the  dramatic.  It  must 
suffice  here,  however,  to  consider  the  relation  of  these  characters  to  each  other 
in  the  later  miracles  and  the  earlier  moral  plays.  In  the  pageants  of  the  Play 
of  Paternoster  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  are  represented.  About  the  same 
time,  in  the  Wakefield  cycle,  they  are  already  written  on  the  rolls  of  the 
Doomsday  Demon,  and  discussed  "in  especiall "  by  Tutivillus.  In  the 
Coventry  Council  of  the  Jews  they  are  new-named  by  their  Lord  Lucifer 
(after  the  manner  of  the  later  Vice),  Pride  as  Honesty,  Wrath  as  Man- 
hood, Covetousness  as  Wisdom,  and  so  on.  It  is  through  the  Seven  Deadly 
Sins  that  the  Belial  of  St.  Paul  (Digby)  "  raynes  "  ;  and  the  Saint  himself1 
preaches  against  them  in  general  and  in  several,  calling  them  not  only  mortal 
sins,  but,  as  if  the  terms  were  synonymous,  Vices  and  Folly.  In  the 
Mary  Magdalene  they  are  not  only  personified,  but,  further,  classified  as 
attendants  upon  their  respective  kings  —  Pride  and  Covetyse,  ministers  of  the 
World  ;  Lechery,  Gluttony,  and  Sloth,  of  the  Flesh  ;  Wrath  and  Envy,  of 
the  Devil,- — and  as  such  they  are  sent  into  action.  This  distinction  by  classes 
is  interesting  because  it  shows  that  from  a  very  early  date  the  Vice  was  regarded 
as  the  servant,  not  of  the  Devil  alone,  but  of  the  World  and  the  Flesh  as  well. 
And  it  will  be  noticed  later  that,  while  the  minor  Vices  of  the  moral  interludes 
frequently  bear  the  names  of  specific  sins,  the  leading  Vice  is  still  likely  to  be 
called  by  a  name  which  sums  up  all  the  specific  sins  of  just  one  of  these  three 
satrapies  of  the  Flesh,  the  World,  the  Devil,  —  Sensuality  for  the  first, 
Hypocrisy  or  Avarice  for. the  second,  and  Sedition  or  Riot  for  the  third,— 
when  he  is  no:  indicated  by  some  synonym  of  Evil  in  general',  such  as  Folly, 
Sin,  Iniquity,  Inclination,  or  Infidelity.  Gradually  the  minor  Vices  pass  into 
dramatic  insignificance  as  compared  with  their  principal  representative,  who 
becomes  the  Vice  in  chief.  The  morals  before  I  500  or  thereabouts  had  one 
or  more  of  the  following  figures  :  Devil,  the  World,  the  Flesh  ;  and  their 
representatives,  the  Vice  and  minor  Vices  or  Deadly  Sins.  Of  these  plays  — 
Perseverance,  Mankind,  Mary  Magdalene,  Wisdom,  Nature,  and  Everyman, 
—  all  but  the  last  three  display  the  complete  aggregation  :  Wisdom  stars  with 
only  a  Devil,  Nature  lacks  a  Devil,  and  Everyman  lacks  both  Devil  and  prin- 
cipal Vice.  The  morals  of  the  middle  period,  I  500  to  I  560,  generally 
eliminate  the  Devil  and  concentrate  the  sins,  temptations,  and  mischiefs  in 
the  Vice,  sometimes  with,  sometimes  without,  his  foils,  the  minor  Vices.  In 
the  Caste//  of  Perseverance,  about  1400,  the  Deadly  Sins  are  "  children  of  the 
Devil"  ;  in  The  World  and  Child,  about  1506,  they  are  expressly  summed 
up  in  one  Vice,  —  Folly  ;  in  Lusty  Juventus,  Like  wil  to  Like,  and  several 

1  FurnivalFs  ed. ,  Ft.  II.  510,  517,  531,  536,  541. 


of  English  Comedy  H 

other  moral  interludes  after  1550,  the  Vice  parades  as  son  or  grandson 
to  the  Devil  ;  and  finally,  about  1578,  while  each  of  the  minor  Vices 
represents  "one  sin  particularly,"  the  Vice  himself  embodies  "all  sins 
generally." 

It  must  be  sufficiently  evident  by  this  time  that  the  derivation  of  this 
name,  in  spite  of  a  half-dozen  misleading  conjectures,  is  no  other  than  that 
which  is  obvious.  I  notice,  however,  that  Mr.  Pollard  regards  the  ety- 
mology from  vitium  as  still  doubtful,  "  because  in  one  of  the  earliest  instances 
in  which  the  Vice  is  specifically  mentioned  by  name,  he  plays  the  part  of  Mery 
Report,  who  is  a  jester  pure  and  simple,  without  any  connection  with  any 
of  the  Deadly  Sins."  But  the  Vice  or  Folly  had  been  known  for  two  or 
three  centuries  in  allegorical  and  satirical  literature,  and  for  a  century  and 
a  half  in  the  religious  drama  before  1530,  and  the  designation  had  acquired 
a  supplementary  and  degraded  connotation  when  used  in  the  Wether,  Jackc 
Jugeler,  etc.,  as  a  player's  term  or  means  of  advertisement.  About  his  func- 
tion and  habits,  also,  various  misconceptions  have  gathered.  I  have,  for  in- 
stance, referred  to  Malone's  statement  that  he  was  a  constant  attendant  upon 
the  Devil.  Nothing  could  be  more  misleading.  The  Devil  appears  in  at 
least  two  morals  unattended  by  a  Vice  of  any  kind,1  and  the  Vice  appears 
in  twenty-five  or  thirty  without  a  Devil.  They  appear  together  in  but  eight2 
that  I  know  of  ;  and  in  only  four3  can  the  Vice  be  said  to  "  attend."  That 
he  eggs  the  demons  on  to  twit  or  torment  the  Devil,  I  cannot  discover 
in  more  than  two  plays,  —  Like  icil  to  Like,  and  All  for  Money.  Since 
the  days  of  Harsnet  and  Ben  Jonson  it  has  been  reported  that  the  Vice  of 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  made  a  practice  of  riding  to  hell  on  the 
Devil's  back.  But  I  have  already  pointed  out  that  he  does  this  in  only 
one  play  before  1580.  The  same  Like  u-il  to  Like  is  the  only  play  in 
which  he  specifically  "belabours  the  fiend."  I  know  of  no  other  in  which 
that  merriment  was  even  likely  to  occur.  In  fact  most  of  these  attributions 
belong,  not  to  the  Vice  of  the  morals  and  interludes,  but  to  one  of  the  later 
substitutes  for  him,  the  Vice-clown,  such  as  Miles  in  Friar  Bacon,  or  Iniquity 
in  The  Devil  is  an  Ass. 

A  general  view  of  his  history  shows,  then,  that  the  Vice  is  neither  an 
ethical  nor  dramatic  derivative  of  the  Devil  ;  nor  is  he  a  pendant  to  that 
personage,  as  foil  or  ironical  decoy,  or  even  antagonist.  The  Devil  of  the 
early  drama  is  a  mythical  character,  a  fallen  archangel,  the  anthropomorphic 

1  Wisdom,  Disobedient  Child. 

2  Perseverance,  Mankind,  Alary   Magdalene,  Nigromansir,   jfuventus,  Lite,   Conflict  of 
Conscience,  Mone\\ 

8  Mankind,  Mary  Magdalene,  Ju-vcntus,  and  Like. 


Hi  An  Historical  View 

Adversary.  The  Vice,  on  the  other  hand,  is  allegorical,  —  typical  of  the 
moral  frailty  of  mankind.  Proceeding  from  the  concept  of  the  Deadly  Sins, 
ultimately  focussing  them,  he  dramatizes  the  evil  that  springs  from  within. 
Though  at  first  directed  by  God's  Adversary,  who  assails  man  with  tempta- 
tions from  without,  the  Vice  is  the  younger  contemporary  of  the  Devil  rather 
than  his  agent.  As  he  acquires  personality,  he  assumes  characteristics  and 
functions  unknown  to  the  Adversary,  scriptural  or  dramatic.  The  functions 
were  gradually  assimilated  with  those  of  mischief-maker,  jester,  and  counter- 
feit-crank ;  the  characteristics,  more  and  more  affected  by  the  Fool-literature 
of  Wireker,  Lydgate,  Brandt  and  Barclay,  Skelton,  and  the  rest  (which 
included  vice  in  Folly,  and  by  the  Fool  connoted  vicious  characters  in  all 
variety),  were  insensibly  identified  with  social  rather  than  abstract  ethical 
qualities,  and  so  came  to  be  distributed  as  tendencies  or  "  humours  "  among 
the  persons  of  the  drama,  —  who  themselves  are  no  longer  allegorical,  but 
representative  of  the  concrete  individuals  of  everyday  life.  Though  the 
conduct  of  the  interlude  Vice  may  be  anything  but  dignified,  his  function 
was,  accordingly,  at  first  serious.  It  was  only  gradually,  and  as  the  con- 
flict between  good  and  evil  was  supplanted  by  less  didactic  materials,  —  in 
other  words,  as  the  moral  became  more  of  a  play,  —  that  the  Vice  grew  to  be 
farcical,  a  mischief-maker,  and  ultimately  jester.  So  long  as  he  acts  the 
seducer  in  disguise,  and  the  marplot,  he  remains  dramatically  supreme. 
When  he,  however,  assumes  the  role  of  parasite,  counterfeit-crank,  or 
simple,  he  enhances  the  variety  of  his  fascination  at  the  expense  of  his 
distinctive  quality  ;  and  when  he  once  has  identified  himself  with  the  Will 
Summer,  the  actor,  wag,  or  buffoon  by  profession,  he  plays  below  the  func- 
tion and  level  of  his  pristine  quality.  The  Vice  proper  should,  therefore, 
not  be  confounded  with  the  Shakespearean  fool,  nor  with  the  country  clown. 
The  country  clown  or  booby  he  in  reality  never  is ;  indeed,  in  some  earlier  mani- 
festations:  the  clown  exists  contemporaneously  with  the  Vice,  and  is  his  natu- 
ral though  not  always  complaisant  quarry.  Though  the  Vice,  however,  did 
not  turn  clown,  the  clown  imperceptibly  usurped  qualities  of  the  vanishing 
Vice. 

In  connection  with  the  misconception  concerning  the  derivation  of  the 
Vice  from  the  domestic  fool,  of  course  incompatible  with  his  descent  from 
the  Deadly  Sins,  there  lingers  a  report  that  he  was  ordinarily  dressed  in  a  fool's 
habit.  Such  is  the  opinion  of  Klein  -  and  Douce  ;  and  Morlev  ;!  writes,  "  The 
Vice,  when  not  in  disguise,  wore  —  as  Brandt  or  Barclay  would  have  thought 
most  fitting  —  the  dress  of  a  fool."  The  dress  of  some  typical  fool  of  evcry- 

1    The  Witt  and  Wisdome,   King  Camhyscs,  Like,  and  Horestcs. 

-  Grab.  d.  cng/.  Dramas,  II.,  p.  4.  3  Englitb  Writers,  VII.,  p.   182. 


of  English  Comedy  liii 

day  life,  some  social  "  crank,"-  — yes  ;  hut  not  until  the  latter  third  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  when  the  Vice  was  in  his  dotage,  did  he  lose  himself  in  the 
habit  of  the  domestic  fool.  The  Vice  "shaking  his  wooden  dagger,"  of 
whom  Ben  Jonson  gives  us  a  glimpse  in  The  Devil  is  an  Ass  and  The  Staple 
of  News,  is  without  doubt  the  domestic  fool  in  the  characteristic  long  coat,  or 
in  the  juggler's  jerkin  with  false  skirts.  But  we  must  remember  that  Ben 
Jonson  was  writing  some  sixty  or  seventy  years  after  the  Vice  properly  so 
called  was  in  his  prime.  From  1450  to  1570  and  later,  the  distinctive  Vice 
of  the  moralities  was  accoutred  in  the  costume  of  his  role,  first  of  a  Deadly 
Sin  or  little  "  dylfe  "  ;  then  of  some  social  class,  trade,  or  type  :  messenger, 
herald,  beggar,  rat-catcher,  priest,  pharisce,  gallant,  dandy,  or  <cit.'  Occa- 
sionally he  assumed  a  succession  of  costumes  according  to  this  dramatic  neces- 
sity. He  was  indeed  frequently  equipped,  in  addition,  with  horn  spectacles 
and  wooden  dagger,  and  sometimes  with  a  burlesque  of  ceremonious  attire,1 
or  he  was  furnished  with  squibs  and  other  fireworks,2  or  with  hangman's  rope 
or  bridle.  Professor  Cushman  surmises  that  he  was,  even,  sometimes  made 
up  like  Punch,  for  instance,  in  Horestes  and  Camb^scs.  I  don't  know  about 
that,  but  of  this  we  may  be  sure,  that  as  a  Vice  he  was  not  distinguished 
by  the  traditional  costume  of  the  domestic  fool.  That  character,  soon 
to  play  an  important  part  in  comedy,  appropriated  certain  tricks  and  aspects 
of  the  Vice,  but  the  distinctive  figure  of  the  moral  drama  did  not  proceed 
from  or  ape  the  domestic  fool  of  contemporary  life. 

Oddly  enough  it  has  lately  been  asserted  that  this  character  had  no  part 
in  the  <  morality  '  proper.  An  implication  to  the  same  effect  is  to  be  found  in 
Halliwell-Phillipps's  notes  to  Witt  and  Wisdom e  as  early  as  1846,  where  he 
says  that  "  the  Vice  is  the  buffoon  of  the  old  moral  plays  which  succeeded  the 
Reformation."  The  fact  is  that  the  Vice  takes  part  in  all  the  plays  under 
consideration,  whether  called  morals  proper  or  moral  interludes,  from  1400 
to  1578,  except  only  Wisdom  of  the  pre- Reformation  series  and  the  Dis- 
obedient Child  of  the  post-Reformation.  Two  other  of  the  thirty-odd  morals 
and  moral  interludes,  namely,  the  Pride  of  Life  and  Everyman,  resort  to  a 
substitute.  They  distribute  the  role  among  minor  representatives  of  the  World, 
Flesh,  and  Devil,  but  they  do  not  dispense  with  the  idea  of  the  Vice.;!  From 
him  proceeds  most  of  the  human  interest  of  these  earlier  comedies.  Like  the 
inclinations  that  he  personifies,  he  is  first  sinful,  then  venial,  then  amusing  ; 

1  Cambysti ;  cf.  Roister  Doister's  array. 

-  Play  of  L//TC  ;   cf.  the  braggart  Crackstone  in   T-'co  Ital.   Gent.,  much  later. 

3  In  tVhdbm  he  may  be  regarded  as  Vice  and  Devil  (Lucifer)  rolled  into  one  ;  in  Evfr\-man 
he  is  probably  represented  by  the  friends  who  desert  the  hero  in  time  of  need  ;  in  the  Disobedient 
Child  he  is  concrete  as  the  prodigal  son. 


liv  An  Historical  View 

and  to  his  tradition  the  comedy  of  a  later  age  owes  more  than  we  are  wont  to 
suspect.  It  owes  to  him  the  development  of  certain  spiritual  characteristics,  a 
cynical  but  rollicking  superiority  to  sham,  a  freedom  from  the  thrall  of  social 
and  religious  externality,  a  reckless  joy  of  living,  but  an  aloofness,  withal,  and 
a  humour  requisite  to  the  exercise  of  satire.  It  is,  indeed,  as  satirist  some- 
times virulent,  but  usually  jocose,  that  the  Vice  is  most  to  be  esteemed. 
In  so  far  as  the  genial  character  of  the  domestic  fool  of  Green,  Lodge,  or 
Shakespeare  reflected  his  irony  and  shrewd  wit,  some  memory  of  him  sur- 
vived ;  and  the  clown-Vice  of  Friar  Bacon  renews  a  passage  or  two  of  his 
later  career,  but  not  every  usurper  of  his  comic  appanage,  his  mimicry,  puns, 
irrelevance,  and  horse-play  can  lay  claim  to  be  descended  from  the  Vice. 

The  dramatic  importance  of  this  figure  can  therefore  not  be  overrated. 
He  forms  the  callida  junctura  between  religious  and  secular,  didactic  and 
artistic,  ideal  and  tangible,  in  our  early  comedy.  He  found  a  house  of  cor- 
rection and  he  left  a  stage.  Garcios,  Pilates,  Doomsday  demons,  and  Maks 
precede,  or  flit  beside  him  ;  but  he,  with  his  ancestral  Sins,  dependent  Follies, 
and  succeeding  Ironies  and  Humours,  occupies  the  central  and  the  foremost 
place.  Even  while  representing  the  superfluity  of  naughtiness  with  an  eye 
to  its  reprobation,  he  is  the  life  of  the  '  moral,'  —  its  apology  for  artistic 
existence,  its  appeal  to  human  interest.  But  when  he  steals  a  further 
march  and  rounds  up  for  ridicule  the  very  components  of  the  allegorical 
drama  that  are  most  removed  from  laughter,  and  most  liable  thereto,  —  the 
long-faced  abstractions  that  regard  the  comic  spirit  as  sinful  and  are  imper- 
vious to  a  joke,  —  he  fulfils  his  destiny.  He  is  the  dramatic  salt  and  sol- 
vent of  the  moral  play.  At  first  it  couldn't  thrive  without  him  ;  at  last  it 
couldn't  thrive  with  him.  For,  what  raison  d1  etre  could  a  moral  have  that 
no  longer  regarded  the  comic  as  immoral,  knew  a  joke  at  sight,  perhaps 
adventured  one  on  its  own  account  ?  Step  by  step  with  the  development 
of  a  popular  aesthetic  interest  in  the  affairs  of  common  men  the  playwright 
asserted  his  superiority  to  social  and  allegorical  make-believes,  and  the  Vice 
proved  his  utility  as  a  dramatic  reagent.  Once  the  Vice  had  gathered  all  sins 
in  himself,  his  career  was  from  'inclination'  to  'humour,'  from  abstract  to 
concrete,  from  the  moral  to  the  typical,  the  one  to  the  many,  and  so  from 
the  service  of  allegory  to  that  of  interlude,  moral  and  pithy,  but  merry,  all  in 
preparation  for  farce,  and  social  and  romantic  comedy. 

6.   The  Relation  between  Miracle,  Moral,  and  Interlude 

An  unfortunate  misapprehension  has  obtained  currency  to  the  effect  that 
there  was  a  deliberate  transition,  chronological  and  logical,  from  the  miracle 


of  English  Comedy  lv 

cycle  to  the  "morality,"  and  thence  to  a  something  entirely  different,  called 
the  interlude  ;  and  it  is  supposed  that  definite  advances  in  the  development  of 
comedy  were  made  part  passu  with  this  transition.  It  is  even  said,  by  one 
of  the  most  genial  and  learned  of  English  scholars,  who  of  course  was  not 
intending  anything  by  way  of  scientific  accuracy,  at  the  time,  that  "in  the 
progress  of  the  drama,  Moralities  followed  Mysteries,  and  were  succeeded  by 
Interludes.  When  folk  tired  of  Religion  on  the  Stage  they  took  to  the  incul- 
cation of  morality  and  prudence  ;  and  when  this  bored  them  they  set  up 
Fun."  But  the  moral  play2  was  rather  a  younger  contemporary  and  com- 
plement of  the  miracle  than  a  follower,  or  a  substitute  for  it.  Moreover, 
allegory  in  the  acted  drama  commanded  the  attention  of  the  public  contempo- 
raneously with  the  scriptural  plays  of  the  later  fourteenth  century;  in  litera- 
ture it  had  occupied  attention  long  before.  People,  therefore,  did  not  wait 
until  they  were  tired  of  religion  upon  the  stage,  before  taking  to  the  inculcation 
of  morality  ;  nor  could  they  have  hoped  to  escape  religion  by  any  such  sub- 
stitute. Moral  plays,  like  plays  which  were  originally  liturgical,  aimed  at 
religious  instruction.  But  as  the  scriptural-liturgical  illustrated  the  forms  of 
the  church  service  and  its  narrative  content,  the  moral  illustrated  the  sermon 
and  the  creed.  The  former  dealt  with  history  and  ritual,  the  latter  with 
doctrine  ;  the  former  made  the  religious  truth  concrete  in  scriptural  figures 
and  events,  the  latter  brought  it  home  to  the  individual  by  allegorical 
means.  The  historical  course  of  the  drama  was  not  from  the  scriptural  play 
to  the  allegorical,  but  from  the  collective  miracle  and  collective  moral,  prac- 
tically contemporary,  to  the  individual  miracle  ann  individual  moral.  The  dra- 
matic quality  of  the  moral  was,  as  we  shall  presently  remark,  not  the  same  as 
that  of  the  miracle,  but  it  neither  supplanted  nor  fully  supplemented  that  of  the 
miracle. 

The  distinction  between  '  morality  '  and  '  interlude '  has  likewise  been 
unduly  and  illogically  emphasized.  The  former  term  may  properly  be  said  to 
indicate  the  content  and  aim  of  a  drama  ;  the  latter,  its  garb  and  occasion  ; 
but  the  essential  characters  of  the  moral  play,  the  human  hero  and  the  represen- 
tatives of  good  and  evil  contending  for  his  soul,  may  be  common  to  interlude 
and  '  morality  '  alike,  and  both  terms  may  with  justice  refer  to  the  same 
drama.  After  1 500  the  role  of  hero  is,  to  be  sure,  sometimes  filled  by 
an  historical  character,  or  by  one  or  mere  concrete  personages  representative 
of  a  type  ;  but  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  play  possessing  such  a  hero  is 
therefore  to  be  called  an  interlude,  for  similar  heroes  are  to  be  found  in  the 
morals  before  i  500.  Nor  should  the  statement  be  accepted  that  morals  are 

1  Furnivall,  Digby  Plays,  Forewords,  xiii. 

'*•  Never  •  Morality  '  to  our  ancestors  ;  that  is  a  futile  borrowing  from  the  French. 


Ivi  An  Historical  View 

distinguished  from  interludes  by  the  presence  in  the  former  of  both  Devil  and 
Vice  ;  for  several  interludes  of  a  later  date  have  both  Devil  and  Vice,  while 
some  of  the  earlier  morals,  written  before  1500,  have  but  one  or  the  other  of 
these  characters,  or  neither.1  The  attempt  to  characterize  the  moral  by  its 
professed  didactic  intent,  and  the  interlude  by  the  lack  thereof  or  the  profes- 
sion of  mirth,  is  equally  unavailing  ;  for  that  manifest  moral,  the  Pride  of  Life, 
one  of  the  earliest  extant,  makes  explicit  promise  in  its  prologue  "  of  mirth 
and  eke  of  kare  "  from  "  this  our  game  "  ;  while  Mankind,  a  moral  of  1461 
to  1485,  which  advertises  no  amusement,  is  as  full  of  it  as  any  late  interlude. 
On  the  other  hand,  several  plays  written  after  1568,  calling  themselves 
"comedies  or  enterludes,"  and  promising  brevity  and  mirth,  are  tedious. 
But,  for  the  advertisement,  sub-title,  or  specification  of  the  play  we  must  of 
course  hold  the  publisher,  and  not  the  author,  generally  responsible.  The 
common  belief  that  '  moralities '  were  succeeded  by  '  interludes '  is  prob- 
ably due  in  large  part  to  the  fact  that  '  interlude  '  has  been  used  in  England 
at  different  periods  for  entirely  different  kinds  of  entertainment,  some  of  which, 
notably  that  to  which  Collier  in  1831  restricted  the  term,  — the  play  after  the 
style  of  Heywood,  —  were  of  later  production  than  the  moral.  But  other 
kinds  of  'interlude'  date  back  to  1300,  and  precede  the  first  mention  of  the 
moral  play  ;  while  later  kinds  include  the  moral,  and  finally  are  synonymous 
with  any  humorous  and  popular  performance.  Collier's  restriction  of  the 
term  was,  therefore,  unfortunate.  It  interpreted  a  genus  as  a  species  ;  for, 
although  the  interlude  was  originally  any  short  entertainment,  occupying  the 
pauses  between  graver  negotiations  of  the  palate  or  intellect,  it  had,  in  the 
course  of  its  history,  acquired  a  significance  almost  as  broad  as  '  drama ' 
itself.  The  interlude  was  of  various  form  and  content  and  covered  many 
species.  As  farce,  the  interlude  anticipated  moral  plays  ;  as  allegorical  drama, 
it  absorbed  them  ;  and  as  comedy,  it  is  their  younger  contemporary,  Jt  is 
not  merely  the  play  after  the  style  of  John  Heywood.  It  is  long  or  short  ; 
religious,  moral,  pedagogic,  political,  or  doctrinal  ;  scriptural,  allegorical,  or 
profane  ;  classical  or  native  ;  imaginative  or  reproductive  of  the  commonplace  ; 
stupid  or  humorous  ;  satirical  or  purely  comic.  It  seems  to  me,  therefore, 
unwise  to  perpetuate  a  distinction  between  moral  plays  and  interludes  which 
was  not  recognized  by  those  who  wrote  and  heard  the  plays  in  question. 

The  reduction  of  the  number  of  actors,  the  abbreviation  of  the  play,  the 
concentration  of  the  plot,  wherever  these  exist  in  the  later  morals  or  moral 
interludes,  are  not  evidence  of  a  change  of  kind,  but  merely  of  a  natural  evo- 
lution through  a  period  of  some  two  hundred  years.  When  ten  Brink  says 

1  Whdom  has  only  Lucifer  ;  Nature  has  only  Sensuality  and  minor  Vices ;  Pride  of  Life. 
had  Devils  in  all  probability,  but  no  Vice,  for  Mirth  is  not  one  ;  E-rcr\»hin  Jus  neither. 


of  English  Comedy  Ivii 

that  the  interlude  was  the  species  best  adapted  to  further  the  development  of 
dramatic  art,  \ve  must  understand  by  interlude  the  individual,  as  opposed  to 
the  collective  drama,  —  or  the  occasional  performance  by  professionals  for  the 
delectation,  and  sometimes  at  the  order,  of  private  persons  or  parties,  as  opposed 
to  expository  or  perfunctory  plays,  plays  manipulated  by  crafts,  or  associated 
with  times,  places,  and  ends  external  to  art.  The  improvement  in  scope  and 
elasticity  which  marks  the  individual  play  is  due  to  various  causes  :  to  patron- 
age, which  prefers  amusement  to  instruction,  and  the  work  of  artists  to  that 
of  journeymen  ;  to  the  development  accordingly  of  a  bread-and-butter  profes- 
sion of  acting,  with  its  accompanying  stimuli  of  necessity  and  opportunity. 
Poetic  invention,  dramatic  constructiveness  and  style,  are  sometimes  spurred 
by  hunger  ;  they  are  always  responsive  to  the  appreciation  of  the  cultivated, 
and  maybe  to  the  reward. 


7.  The  Older  Morals  in  their  Relation  to  Comedy 

The  remaining  dramas  within  the  compass  ot  this  survey  may  be  considered 
in  the  following  order:  first,  the  older  morals  and  moral  interludes,  between 
the  years  1400  and  i  520  ;  second,  various  experiments  of  native  and  foreign, 
classical  and  romantic,  origin  which  distinguish  a  period  of  transition  extend- 
ing approximately  from  1520  to  1553  ;  and,  third,  some  nine  or  ten  plays 
of  prime  importance  which  succeed  these  and  unite,  in  one  way  or  another, 
qualities  of  structure  and  aim  hitherto  distinctive  of  separate  dramatic  kinds. 
The  period  during  which  these  plays,  which  I  shall  venture  to  call  polytypic, 
were  produced,  roughly  coincides  with  the  years  1545  to  1566,  and  among 
these  plays  are  the  first  English  comedies  really  worthy  of  the  name.  We 
must  then  notice  a  group  of  rudimentary  survivals,  some  of  which,  falling 
between  1550  and  1570,  illustrate  simply  an  artificial  adaptation  ot  the 
'moral'  species,  while  other  few,  appearing  between  1553  anc^  'S^o,  are  a 
persistent  flowering  of  the  decadent  s  o:-k,  fruitless  in  kind  but  genuine  in  comic 
quality.  We  shall  finally  pass  in  brief  review  the  crude  romantic  plays  of  mor- 
als or  intrigue  or  popular  tradition  written  between  1570  and  1590.  And  if 
it  were  not  for  lack  of  space,  we  should  also  glance  at  the  satirical  comedies 
which  appeared  when  Shakespeare  was  beginning  and  Greene  was  ceasing  ; 
but,  so  far  as  possible,  I  must  omit  all  subjects  to  which  any  consideration  has 
elsewhere  been  accorded  in  this  volume. 

A  sympathetic  examination  of  the  older  morals  —  those  that  were  pro- 
duced before  I  520  —  will  reveal,  even  though  the  period  is  comparatively  early, 
a  twofold  character  of  composition.  We  find,  on  the  one  hand,  plays  inter- 


Iviii  An  Historical 

pretative  of  ideals  of  life,  constructive  in  character,  reiving  upon  the  funda- 
mentally allegorical,  and  making  principally  for  a  didactic  end.  We  find,  on 
the  other  hand,  plays  that  deal  with  the  actual  have  a  critical  aim,  reproduce 
appearances  and  manners,  and  tend  toward  the  amusing  and  satirical. 

Of  the  half-dozen  morals  that  made  for  the  development  of  constructive 
or  interpretative  comedy,  one  of  the  earliest  (about  1400)  and  most  impor- 
tant was  the  Castell  of  Perseverance.  In  the  quality  of  its  dramatic  devices 
it  sustains  a  close  relation  to  the  Digby  Magdalene,  —  the  siege  of  the  Castell 
by  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  and  their  repulse  under  the  roses  which  the  Virtues 
have  discharged.  It  also  makes  use  of  characters  already  prominent  in  the 
eleventh  Coventry  play,  the  Pax  and  Miscricordia,  who  there,  as  here,  intercede 
tor  mankind.  Collier  calls  this  a  well-constructed  and  much  varied  allegory,  and 
says  with  good  reason  that  its  completeness  indicates  predecessors  in  the  same 
kind.  It  is  itself  an  early  treatment  of  a  fruitful  theme,  variously  handled 
in  later  plays  like  Marlowe's  Doctor  Faustus,  and  in  narratives  like  The  Holy 
War.  Though  the  abstractions  are  not  of  a  highly  dramatic  character,  still  one 
or  two  of  them,  — for  instance  Detractio,  the  Vice,  who  is  a  cousin  of  the 
Coventry  Backbiter,  and  of  Invidia,  "who  dwellyth  in  Abbeys  ofte,"  fore- 
shadow the  comedy  of  manners  and  satire,  that  is  to  say,  the  comedy  of  criti- 
cism. Other  morals  or  moral  interludes  of  the  constructive  kind,  which  I 
must  forbear  to  describe,  even  though  they  contributed  in  one  way  or  another 
to  the  improvement  of  dramatic  consciousness  or  skill,  are  the  Pride  of  Life,  of 
antiquity  perhaps  as  high  as  the  preceding  ;  the  Wisdom  that  is  Christ,  1 480— 
1490,  a  comedy  in  the  medieval  sense,  insomuch  as  it  portrays  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  a  hero  in  his  contest  with  temptation  ;  Mundus  et  Infans,  printed 
1522,  but  written  perhaps  by  the  beginning  of  the  century,  which,  beside 
giving  us  a  vivid  satirical  picture  of  low  life,  makes  a  twofold  contribution 
to  the  technique  of  comedy,  — an  iteration  of  crises  in  plot,  and  a  sequence  of 
changes  in  the  character  of  the  hero  ;  Skelton's  Magnyfycence,  1515-1523, 
significant  for  "vigour  and  vivacity  of  diction,"  and  his  Nigromansir,  written 
somewhat  earlier,  which,  though  now  lost,  appears  by  Warton's  account  to 
have  contributed,  by  its  attack  upon  ecclesiastical  abuses,  to  the  beginnings  of 
satirical  comedy  ;  the  Moral/e  P/ay  of  the  Somon'^nge  of  Everyman,  printed 
before  1531,  but  of  uncertain  date  of  composition, — a  tragedy  to  be  sure, 
but  "one  of  the  most  perfect  allegories  ever  formed."  All  these,  even  when 
not  purposively  comic  or  even  entertaining,  assist  the  dramatic  presentation  of 
an  imaginative  ideal  ;  occasionally  also,  though  less  directly,  they  contribute 
to  dramatic  satire  and  the  portrayal  of  manners. 

Of  moral  plays  written  before  I  520  that  contributed  to  the  comedy  of  real 
life  and  critical  intent  WTC  still  have  three  or  four.  Mankynd — somewhere 


of  English  Comedy  lix 

between  1461  and  1485  —  is  of  prime  importance  to  the  comedy  of  the 
actual,  for  practically  its  only  claim  to  consideration  as  an  allegorical  or  didac- 
tic production  is  that  it  maintains  the  plan  and  purpose  of  the  moral  play. 
Its  dramatic  tendency  is  altogether  away  from  the  abstract.  In  spite  of  its 
stereotyped  Mercie  and  Myscheff,  its  minor  Vices,  and  its  Devil,  it  is  a 
somewhat  coarse  but  amusing  portrayal  of  the  manners  of  contemporary 
ne'er-do-weels.  Attach  no  more  meaning  to  the  names  Newgyse,  Nowa- 
days, and  Nowte  than  the  chuckling  audience  did,  or  change  them  to  Hunt- 
yngton  of  Sanston,  Thuolay  of  Hanston,  and  Pycharde  of  Trumpyngton, 
and  you  perceive  at  once  that  the  individuality,  conversation,  and  behaviour 
of  these  characters,  and  even  of  the  hero,  when  he  is  not  "  holyer  than  ever 
was  ony  of  his  kyn,"  are  hardly  less  natural  and  concrete  than  those  of  Eng- 
lishmen immortalized  by  Heywood,  Udall,  and  William  Stevenson.  The 
plot,  to  be  sure,  is  dramatically  futile,  the  incidents  farcical,  the  merriment 
anything  but  refined  ;  but  there  are  few  merrier  successors  of  the  Wakefield 
Tutivillus  than  his  namesake  here,  who,  coming  "  invysybull,"  cometh  for  all 
that  "with  his  legges  under  him"  and  "no  lede  on  his  helys  "  to  inform 
the  sanctimonious  hero  that  "a  schorte  preyere  thyrlyth  hewyn  "  and  the 
audience  that  "  the  Devil  is  dead."  Like  the  devil-judge  of  the  Nigromansir 
and  the  devil-sailor  of  the  Shipwrights'  P/a\,  he  has  shaken  off  his  biblical 
conventions  (if  he  ever  had  any),  he  associates  familiarly  with  characters  of 
all  kinds,  and  is  marked  by  his  grotesque  devices  as  a  wilful  worker  of  confu- 
sion, the  marplot  of  the  play.  The  dog-Latin  of  the  Vice  Myscheff  stands 
half-way  between  that  of  the  Wakefield  plays  and  that  of  Roister  Do'nter  and 
Thersytes ;  and  the  Sam  Wellerisms  of  Newgyse  are  a  fine  advance  in  the 
reproduction  of  the  vulgar.  His  "  Beware  !  quod  the  goode-wyft",  when 
sche  smot  of  here  husbondes  hede,"  and  his  "Quod  the  Devill  to  the 
frerys,"  and  other  gayeties  perilous  to  quote  —  there  is  something  Rabelaisian 
in  all  this.  So  Nowte  and  Nowadays,  with  their  racy  idioms,  their  varie- 
gated oaths,  and  "  allectuose  ways,"  are  to  the  manner  born,  neither  new 
nor  old  ;  they  are  of  the  picaresque  drama  that  finds  a  welcome  in  every  age 
and  land.  It  is  worth  while  to  notice  also  the  parallelism  of  crudity  and 
progress  in  the  technical  devices  of  the  action  :  on  the  one  hand,  the  exchange 
of  garments  by  which  a  change  of  motive  is  symbolized,  a  ruse  that  only 
gradually  yields  to  the  manifestation  of  character  by  means  of  action  ;  and  on 
the  other  hand,  the  legitimate  and  dramatic  parody  of  a  scene  in  court. 

The  concrete  element  so  noteworthy  in  Mankynd  is  further  developed  in 
the  "  Goodly  Interlude  of  Nature,  compylyde  by"  Archbishop  Morton's 
chaplain,  Henry  Medwall,  between  1486  and  1500.  This  author  must 
have  possessed  a  remarkably  vivid  imagination,  or  have  enjoyed  a  closer 


Ix  An  Historical  View 

acquaintance  than  might  be  expected  of  one  of  his  cloth  with  the  seamy  side 
ot  London  ;  for  there  are  few  racier  or  more  realistic  bits  of  description  in 
our  early  literature  than  the  account  given  by  Sensuality  of  Fleyng  Kat  and 
Margery,  of  the  perversion  of  the  hero  by  the  latter,  and  of  her  retirement 
when  deserted  to  that  house  of"  Strayt  Religyon  at  the  Grene  Freres  hereby," 
where  "all  is  open  as  a  gose  eye."  Though  the  plot  is  not  remarkable, 
nor  the  mechanism  of  it,  for  almost  the  only  device  availed  of  is  that  of 
feigned  names,  still  the  author's  insight  into  the  conditions  of  low  life, 
his  common  sense,  his  proverbial  philosophy,  his  humorous  exhibition  of 
the  morals  of  the  day,  and  his  stray  and  sudden  shafts  at  the  foibles  of 
his  own  religious  class,  would  alone  suffice  to  attract  attention  to  this  work. 
And  even  more  remarkable  than  this  in  the  history  of  comedy  is  Medwall's 
literary  style  :  his  versification  excellent  and  varied,  his  conversations  witty, 
idiomatic,  and  facile.  Indeed,  he  is  so  far  beyond  the  ordinary  convention 
that  he  writes  the  first  bit  of  prose  to  be  found  in  our  drama. 

Several  of  the  characteristics  of  Mankind  are  carried  forward  also  in  the 
moral  "interlude,"  named,  not  for  its  hero  Free  Will,  but  for  its  Vice, 
Hyckescorner.  It  appears  to  have  been  written  between  1497  and  1512. 
The  upper  limit  of  production  is  fixed  by  the  reference  to  Newfoundland, 
and  perhaps  by  the  fact  that  in  the  same  year  Locher's  translation  of  the 
Narrenschijf  appeared  ;  the  lower  limit  by  the  mention  of  the  ship  Regent, 
which  would  not  probably  have  been  referred  to  as  existing  after  I5I2.1 
Indeed,  the  mention  of  the  ship  James  may  associate  the  lower  limit  with 
1503,  the  date  of  the  Scotch  marriage.  The  tendency  of  this  moral  is  dis- 
tinctively didactic,  —  to  denounce  the  folly  that  scoffs  at  religion, — but  in 
quality  it  smacks  more  of  comedy  than  any  preceding  play.  Its  value  was 
long  ago  acknowledged  by  Dr.  Percy.  "  Abating  the  moral  and  religious 
reflections  and  the  like,"  says  he,  "the  piece  is  of  a  comic  cast,  and  con- 
tains a  humorous  display  of  some  of  the  vices  of  the  age.  Indeed,  the  author 
has  generally  shown  so  little  attention  to  the  allegorical  that  we  need  only  to 
substitute  other  names  to  his  personages,  and  we  have  real  characters  and 
living  manners."  The  plot  is  insignificant,  but  the  situations  are  refreshingly 
humorous,  and  one  of  them,  the  setting  of  Pity  in  the  stocks,  is  new.  The 
local  references  are  frequent,  and  the  dialogue  is  more  sprightly  than  even 
that  of  Nature.  Hyckescorner  is  in  many  ways  the  model  of  another  im- 
portant play  of  which  we  shall  soon  have  reason  to  speak,  the  Interlude  of 
Youth. 

1  I  see  no  reason  for  assuming  with  Professor  Brandl  (z>iie//en  u.  Forschungen,  XXVIII.) 
that  the  loss  of  the  navy  bound  for  Ireland,  11.  336-363,  has  reference  to  the  destruction  of 
the  Regent  by  the  French,  1512. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixi 

While  the  plot  of  the  New  Interlude  and  Mer\'  of  the  Nature  of  tbe  Four 
Elements,  calls  for  no  special  notice,  it  interests  us  because  in  purpose  it  is  not 
moral,  hut  scientific,  and  in  conduct  makes  use  of  comic  and  commonplace 
means  not  previously  availed  of.  The  humour  proceeds  not  simply  from  the 
jumble  of  oaths,  nicknames,  proverbs,  gibes,  bad  puns,  transparent  jokes, 
mimicry,  Sam  Wellerisms,  and  ntigae  canorae  of  which  the  talk  of  most  Vices 
consists,  but  from  the  cleverly  managed  verbal  misunderstanding  between  the 
Vice  and  the  Taverner,  the  irrelevant  question,  and  the  humorous  employ- 
ment of  snatches  and  tags  from  popular  songs.  The  introduction  of  a 
character  representing  a  trade,  such  as  that  of  the  Taverner,  who  enumerates 
sixteen  kinds  of  wine,  and  "by  his  face  seems  to  love  best  drinking,"  is,  of 
course,  novel,  but  is  not  without  precedent  in  the  miracle  plays.  This 
interlude  was  printed  in  I  5  19  by  its  author,  John  Rastell,  evidently  soon  after 
it  was  written. 

When  we  consider  that  the  Four  Elements  was  written  by  a  friend  of  Sir 
Thomas  More,  and  that,  like  the  plays  of  John  Heywood,  another  of  More's 
friends,  it  depends  for  much  of  its  effect  upon  its  gibes  at  womankind,  we  are, 
perhaps,  assisted  in  realizing  the  extent  to  which  the  literary  taste  of  the  day 
still  indulged  in  this  primitive  form  of  amusement,  and  the  distance  which  was 
yet  to  be  covered  before  comedy  could  safely  avail  itself  of  the  feminine  ele- 
ment as  it  is,  —  witty  and  practical,  as  well  as  tender,  —  and  so  prepare  to 
fulfil  its  peculiar  function  as  the  conserver  of  society.  For,  until  it  recognizes 
that  women  constitute  the  social  other-half,  the  comic  spirit  has  not  come 
into  full  possession  of  its  possibilities  ;  it  has  not  produced  comedy,  for  it  has 
not  given  us  a  full  and  undistorted  reflex  of  life.  This  is  a  fact  so  rarely  con- 
sidered that  I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  Mr.  George  Meredith.  "  Comedy," 
he  says,  in  his  excellent  essay  on  its  Idea —  "  comedy  lifts  women  to  a  station 
offering  them  free  play  for  their  wit,  as  they  usually  show  it,  when  they  have 
it,  on  the  side  of  sound  sense.  The  higher  the  comedy,  the  more  prominent 
the  part  they  enjoy  in  it.  ...  The  heroines  of  comedy  arc  like  women 
of  the  world,  not  necessarily  heartless  for  being  clear-witted  :  they  seem  so  to 
the  sentimentally  reared  only  for  the  reason  that  they  use  their  wits,  and  are 
not  wandering  vessels  crying  for  a  captain  or  a  pilot.  Comedy  is  an  exhi- 
bition of  their  battle  with  men,  and  of  men  with  them  :  and  as  the  two, 
however  divergent,  both  look  on  one  object,  namely,  life,  the  gradual  simi- 
larity of  their  impressions  must  bring  them  to  some  resemblance.  The  comic 
poet  dares  to  show  us  men  and  women  coming  to  this  mutual  likeness  ;  he  is 
for  saying  that,  when  they  draw  together  in  social  life,  their  minds  grow 
liker  ;  just  as  the  philosopher  discerns  the  similarity  of  boy  and  girl,  until  the 
girl  is  marched  away  to  the  nursery."  Of  course,  if  the  wavs  ot  man  and 


Ixii  An  Historical  View 

maid  in  society  ever  grew  to  be  exactly  alike,  comedy  would  die  of  inanition. 
Consequently,  though  I  say  that  comedy  requires  for  the  sexes  equality  of 
social  privilege,  I  do  not  mean  identity.  The  s^nalerpka  of  the  sexes  —  such 
as  some  extremists,  political  and  pedagogical,  project  —  would  just  as  surely 
destroy  comedy  as  in  former  days  the  inequality  of  the  sexes  dwarfed  it.  The 
sentimental  and  romantic  give-and-take  is  as  essential  to  society  as  the  intel- 
lectual, and  as  essential  to  corned v  as  to  societv. 


8.   The  Dramatic  Contribution  of  the  Older  Morals 

Before  discussing  the  period  of  transition  upon  which  comedy  now  enters, 
it  will  be  advantageous  to  determine,  if  possible,  what  contributions  to  the 
methods  of  comedy  should  be  credited  distinctively  to  this  moral  or  moral 
interlude  during  the  years  that  preceded  the  change,  that  is,  from  1380  to 
1520.  Certainly  not  the  introduction  of  the  separate  play,  as  is  frequently 
supposed,  nor  the  substitution  of  immediate  and  familiar  interests  for  those 
that  were  remote,  nor  of  the  invented  plot  for  the  traditional,  and  the  signifi- 
cant for  the  spectacular.  Though  some  of  these  features  distinguish  the 
evolution  of  the  allegorical  play,  one  and  another  of  them  is  also  to  be  recog- 
nized at  as  early  a  period,  or  earlier,  in  those  forms  of  the  drama,  kindred 
and  unrelated,  that  I  have  already  described,  —  the  miracle,  the  saint's  play,  the 
farce,  and  the  secular  festival  play.  I  should  say  that,  so  far  as  the  materials  of 
drama  are  concerned,  the  advances  peculiar  to  the  allegorical  play  were,  from 
the  use  of  the  scriptural  dramatis  persona,  frequently  instrumental  and  therefore 
wooden,  to  the  use  of  the  dynamic  ;  and  from  the  historical  or  traditional  indi- 
vidual to  the  representative  of  a  type.  These  are  substitutions  important  to 
our  subject,  for,  that  the  individual  should  come  to  the  front  is,  as  ten  Brink 
has  well  said,  a  characteristic  of  tragedy,  whereas  in  comedy  it  is  the  typical 
that  is  emphasized,  to  the  end  that  in  an  example  which  is  typical  the  follies 
of  the  age  may  be  liberally,  and  at  the  same  time  impersonally,  embodied  and 
chastised.  By  virtue  of  its  didactic  purpose  and  its  allegorical  form,  more- 
over, the  moral  play  must  ascribe  to  its  dramatis  persons  adequate  motives  of 
action.  It  therefore  must  and  does  make  an  attempt,  even  though  rude,  at 
the  preservation  of  psychological  probability  in  the  analysis  and  development 
of  these  motives.  Once  the  dramatic  person  has  been  labelled  with  the  name 
of  a  quality,  not  as  appraised  from  without  and  denoted  by  a  patronymic 
common  to  dozens  beside  himself,  but  from  within  and  specified  by  his  etho- 
nymic  (if  I  may  coin  the  word  ),  he  is  no  longer  a  chance  acquaintance  of  the 
dramatist  or  the  public,  but  the  representative  of  an  ethical  family.  In  the 


of  English  Comedy  Ixiii 

moral  play  the  characters  stand  for  or  against  some  convention,  —  educational, 
ethical,  political,  religious,  —  that  is  to  say,  social  in  the  broadest  sense.  With 
the  advent  of  such  characters,  therefore,  the  social  drama  receives  an  impulse. 
Its  hero  serves  to  justify  or  to  satiri/.e  an  institution  ;  tor  that  end  he  exists. 
And  therefore  in  the  handling  of  motives  the  moral  makes  a  genuine  advance 
in  the  direction  of  comedy,  both  critical  and  ideal. 

We  notice  next  that  the  author  of  this  kind  of  drama  finds  it  necessary  to 
devise  situations  for  exploiting  the  idiosyncrasies  of  his  principal  characters  ; 
and  that,  even  though  the  characters  be  disguised  as  abstractions,  the  friction 
of  what  is  dynamic  with  what  is  real  results  in  something  vivid  and  concrete. 
I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  dramatist  has  learned  how  to  develop  character, 
but  how  to  display  or  manifest  it.  Skill  in  the  portrayal  of  character  in 
process  of  growth  came  but  slowly,  and  with  the  passage  of  the  allegorical  play 
into  the  drama  of  real  life.  As  to  the  portrayal  of  motives  and  emotions  in 
their  complexity,  that  is  an  art  much  more  refined,  to  which  the  writers  of  the 
moral  never  attained,  even  though  they  enriched  their  abstractions  with  borrow- 
ings from  theologians,  philosophers,  and  poets,  for  in  dealing  with  abstractions 
at  all  they  were  dealing  with  life  at  second  hand.  Indeed,  complex  char- 
acters can  hardly  be  found  in  English  drama  before  the  various  tentative  dra- 
matic species  had  merged  themselves  in  the  polytypic  plays  with  which 
comedy,  properly  so  called,  made  its  appearance.  The  allegorical  dramatists 
found  also,  like  the  writers  of  the  later  miracle  and  farce,  that  critical  situations 
demanded  plain  language  and  unsophisticated  manners  ;  and  if,  in  these  respects, 
the  realism  of  the  moral  excels  that  of  the  earlier  miracle,  it  is  perhaps  because 
of  the  superior  dynamic  quality  of  the  moral  dramatis  persona. 

Mr.  Courthope  and  other  writers  on  the  drama  have  conjectured  that  the 
improvement  characteristic  of  the  allegorical  playwright  was  one  to  which  he 
was  driven  of  necessity,  namely,  the  introduction,  and  consequently  the  in- 
vention, of  a  continuous  plot.  But  there  was  nothing  new  in  the  invention  of 
plot.  The  novelty,  if  any,  was  in  the  distinctively  comic  nature  of  the  plot- 
movement  most  suitable  to  the  purpose  of  this  kind  of  drama.  In  tragedy, 
the  movement  must  be  economic  of  its  ups  and  downs  :  once  headed  down- 
ward, it  must  plunge,  with  but  one  or  two  vain  recovers,  to  the  abyss.  In 
comedy,  on  the  other  hand,  though  the  movement  is  ultimately  upward,  the 
crises  are  more  numerous  ;  the  oftener  the  individual  stumbles  without  break- 
ing his  neck,  and  the  more  varied  his  discomfitures,  so  long  as  they  are  tem- 
porary, the  better  does  he  enjoy  his  ease  in  the  cool  of  the  day.  Tragic 
effects  may  be  intense  and  longer  drawn  out,  but  they  must  be  few  ;  in 
comedy,  the  effects  are  many,  sudden,  fleeting,  kaleidoscopic.  You  can  en- 
joy a  long,  delicious  shudder,  but  not  a  long-spun  joke,  or  a  joke  frequently 


Ixiv  An  Historical  View 

repeated,  or  many  jokes  of  the  same  kind.  Hence  the  peculiar  movement  of 
the  plot  in  comedy.  Now,  the  novelty  of  the  plot  in  the  moral  play,  lay  in 
the  fact  that  the  movement  was  of  this  oscillating,  upward  kind,  —  a  kind 
unknown  as  a  rule  to  the  miracle,  whose  conditions  were  less  fluid,  and  to  the 
farce,  which  was  too  shallow  and  superficial.  The  heart  of  the  '  moral  ' 
hero  was  a  battleground  ;  as  in  comedy,  the  interest  was  in  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  conflict  and  the  certainty  of  peace.  Though  the  purpose  of  the  moral 
play  was  didactic  and  reformatory,  its  doctrine  was  optimistic  and  its  end  to 
encourage  ;  and  one  of  the  distinctive  contributions  of  the  moral  play  to  the 
English  comedy  was  the  movement  suitable  to  these  conditions,  not  the  in- 
troduction of  a  continuous  or  connected  plot.  When  Mr.  Courthope  further 
speaks  of  the  moral  plays  as  if  they  were  the  sole  link  of  connection  between 
the  later  miracle  plays  and  the  regular  drama,  and  implies  that  the  "  morality  " 
was  unique  in  its  introduction  of  a  leading  personage,  who  may  be  called  the 
hero  of  the  play,  he  is  attributing  to  it  qualities  that  existed  in  contemporary 
species  of  the  dramatic  kind.  As  to  the  statement  that  the  moral  play  arose, 
as  if  a  new  kind  of  play,  from  some  modification  of  the  miracle  play,  on  the 
one  hand  by  secular  and  comic  interests,  and  on  the  other  by  allegorical 
motives  and  materials,  I  think  that  sufficient  has  been  elsewhere  said  in  this 
article  to  show  that  secular  and  comic  interests  existed  in  the  miracle  play  with- 
out altering  its  essence,  both  before  and  after  the  moral  had  come  into  promi- 
nence, and  that  allegorical  motives  and»materials  had  developed  themselves  into 
the  moral  pageant  and  play  before  the  miracle  was  visibly  affected  by  them. 


9.   The  Period  of  Transition :   Farce  and  Romantic  Interlude 

The  period  of  experimentation  or  transition,  which  may  be  said  to  extend 
from  1520  to  1553,  is  characterized  especially  by  the  gradual  abandonment 
of  allegorical  machinery  and  abstract  material.  The  forward  movement  is, 
of  course,  primarily  due  to  the  change  from  the  mediaeval  attitude  of  mind  to 
that  of  the  renaissance,  from  artificial  thought  whose  medium,  the  symbol,  suc- 
ceeded in  concealing  more  than  it  expressed,  to  experience.  Of  the  social  and 
political  conditions  which  prepared  the  way  for  the  transition  so  far  as  English 
comedy  is  concerned  or  that  shaped  comedy  once  on  its  way,  I  cannot  here 
speak,  but  the  following  would  appear  among  purely  literary  antecedents : 
First,  the  French  sotties  and  farces,  the  technical  and  satirical  qualities  of 
which  were  a  stimulus  to  invention,  not  only  in  England,  but  in  Italy  and 
Germany  ;  second,  the  disputations  and  debats,  veritable  whetstones  of  wit 
and  a  polish  of  words  ad  unguent;  third,  the  collateral  development  of  a 


of  English  Comedy  Ixv 

farce  interlude  in  England,  composed  in  Latin  and  English,  probably  also  in 
Norman  French,  but  generally  spontaneous,  and  wholly  unforced  ;  fourth, 
the  adaptation  to  dramatic  and  satirical  purposes  ot  conies,  fabliaux,  -novel/e, 
and  their  English  translations  and  congeners, — more  especially  the  Chaucerian 
episode  with  its  concrete  characters  and  contemporary  manners  ;  fifth,  the 
movement  of  native  romance  urged  during  the  fifteenth  and  earlier  sixteenth 
centuries  by  contact  with  Spanish  and  Italian  ideals  and  their  fictions  of 
character,  adventure,  and  intrigue  ;  sixth,  the  discipline  of  Plautiue  and  Te- 
rentian  models,  and  of  the  Latin  and  vernacular  comedies  which  imitated 
them,  as  well  as  of  the  Latin  school  plays  which  flourished  in  Holland  and 
Germany  during  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century  ;  and  seventh,  the 
examples  set  by  Kirchmayer  and  other  German  controversialists  in  the 
attempted  adaptation  of  the  moral  play  to  historical  or  quasi-historical  condi- 
tions with  a  view  to  satirical  ends. 

The  plays  that  call  for  consideration  in  this  section  and  the  next  may  be 
classified  roughly  as  farces,  romantic  interludes,  school  interludes,  and  contro- 
versial morals.  Each  of  these  kinds  reaches  a  culmination  conformable  to  its 
nature,  within  the  limits  that  I  have  chosen  for  the  period  ;  and  each  has  its  own 
place  in  the  history  of  comedy.  For  it  must  not  be  supposed  that,  because 
a  pastoral  farce  like  the  Mak  did  not  develop  into  independent  existence,  or 
because  moral  interludes  gradually  exhausted  their  career  towards  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  such  species  had  no  influence  in  maturing  English 
comedy.  The  peculiar  quality  and  charm  of  our  comedy  is  that,  deriving 
from  sources  not  only  distinct,  but  remote  in  literary  habitat, — scriptural, 
allegorical,  farcical,  pastoral,  romantic,  classical,  historical,  or  purely  native 
and  social,  —  it  has  not  dissipated  itself  in  a  thousand  streamlets,  but  has 
carried  down  deposits  from  each  tributary  at  its  best.  In  Lore's  Labor's 
Lost,  Two  Angry  Women,  As  You  Like  It,  Old  Wives'  Tale,  Every  Man 
in  His  Humour,  we  find,  as  in  a  miner's  pan,  'colours'  from  vastly  different 
soils. 

Of  the  indebtedness  of  comedy  to  the  parody  of  religious  festivals  I  have 
already  spoken,  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  at  later  periods  English  comedy- 
continued  to  draw  devices,  if  not  inspiration,  from  performances  whose  occa- 
sion was  a  revolt  against  the  straitness  of  religion.  One,  at  least,  of  the 
interludes  of  John  Hey  wood  is  closely  similar  to  the  French  Farce  dc  Fernet, 
and  that  such  farces  were,  in  motive,  first  a  gloss  upon  the  lessons  of  the  divine 
service,  then  a  diversion,  and  finally  a  factor  in  the  extra-ecclesiastical  Feast  of 
Fools,  any  reader  of  Petit  dc  Jullcville  will  readily  concede.  It  is  impossible 
that  the  comic  features  and  comic  characters  of  the  farces  acted  by  the  clercs 
de  la  Basoche,  such  as  that  of  the  immortal  Ma'itre  Patbelin,  should  not  have 


Ixvi  ^4n  Historical  View 

affected  the  dramatic  invention  of  contemporary  and  succeeding  Englishmen, 
conversant  as  many  of  them  were  with  the  literature  and  society  of  France. 
And  a  like  effect  might  naturally  be  expected  to  have  been  exercised  by  the 
softies  of  the  contemporary  enfants  sans  souci ;  for,  through  the  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  centuries,  drama  of  that  kind  convulsed  the  sides  of  merrymakers 
south  of  the  Channel.  Such  were  the  occasion  and  motive  of  farces  and 
sotties.  So  far  as  they  employed  the  plot  of  domestic  intrigue  for  their  pur- 
poses of  satire,  I  have  little  doubt  that  they  drew  freely  upon  the  Latin  elegiac 
comedies  of  which  I  have  already  spoken  as  the  favourite  dramatic  species  of 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.  The  Farce  de  Fernet  has  connection 
with  more  than  one  of  those  imitations  of  Terentian  intrigue.  It  has,  also, 
like  many  of  its  kind  and  of  elegiac  comedies  as  well,  a  kinship  with  one  and 
another  popular  tale.  The  church,  then,  seems  to  have  furnished  the  oppor- 
tunity for  these  farces,  and  for  some  as  an  object  of  satire  the  motive  ;  the 
contes  and  fabliaux  of  the  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth  centuries  fur- 
nished much  of  .the  material;  Latin  comedy,  its  mediaeval  and  renaissance 
successors,  cannot  have  failed  to  influence  the  form. 

It  will  be,  of  course,  recalled  that  as  early  as  the  Mak  of  the  Towneley 
plays,  a  farce  which  is  not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  Maitre  Pathelin, 
the  English  Interludium  de  Clerico  et  Puella,  probably  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, also  indicated  an  acquaintance  with  the  technique  of  the  farce  species. 
Undoubtedly  such  interludes  were  a  common  feature  at  entertainments  of  vari- 
ous kinds,  and  had  matured  in  the  ordinary  course  into  fixed  form.  But  they 
were  frequently  extemporaneous,  were  written  for  fleeting  occasions,  and 
might  readily  be  lost.  I  am  inclined  therefore,  to  look  upon  the  dramatized 
anecdotes  assigned  to  Heywood  as  lucky  survivals  of  a  form  which,  since  it 
had  been  long  cultivated  both  in  England  and  France,  may  have  attained  to 
a  degree  of  excellence  before  he  took  it  up.  The  resemblance  of  these  farces 
to  the  French  is  often  such  that,  as  M.  Jusserand  says,  one  cannot  but  ques- 
tion whether  Heywood  had  not  some  of  the  old  French  dramas  of  the  type  in 
his  hands.  Since  Mr.  Pollard  has  discussed  the  question  in  this  volume,  it  is 
unnecessary  for  me  to  pursue  it  farther.  In  any  case,  it  is  to  the  honour  of 
Heywood  that  he  brought  to  focus  the  characteristic  qualities  of  the  Chauce- 
rian episode,  the  farce  and  the  dramatic  debate.  "  This  I  write,"  says  he, 
"not  to  teach,  but  to  touch."  In  his  work,  accordingly,  we  find  narratives 
of  single  and  independent  interest,  if  not  exactly  plot,  and  an  adaptation  of 
that  which  is  abstract  to  purposes  of  amusement.  We  find  characters  with 
motive,  and  sometimes  personality,  contemporary  manners,  witty  dialogue, 
satire  ;  and  in  at  least  the  Play  of  Love,  an  adumbration  of  the  sentimental, 
dare  we  say  romantic,  possibilities  of  comedy,  to  be  realized  when  it  should 


of  English  Comedy  Ixvii 

have  thrown  allegory  and  scholasticism  to  the  winds.  The  Laundress  in  the 
Wether  envisages  fleetingly  the  straits  of  life  and  the  recompense  ;  and  in  the 
Play  of  Love,  the  personification  of  various  phases  of  that  passion  is  a  kind  of 
glass  through  which  we  darkly  divine  the  motives  of  many  later  comedies. 
There  is,  however,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  Vice's  trick  in  Love,  no 
action  which  can  be  called  dramatic  in  Heywood's  undoubted  plays  ;  for,  as 
Mr.  Pollard  reminds  us,  the  Pardoner  and  Johan,  although  they  avail  them- 
selves of"  business"  in  order  to  develop  a  plot,  have  not  the  significance  of 
comedy  proper. 

To  understand  the  nature  of  the  movements  that  follow  we  must  recur, 
though  with  the  utmost  brevity,  to  the  history  of  later  Latin  comedy.  The 
comic  recitals  of  the  twelfth  century  and  thereabout  were  succeeded  by  the 
comedy  of  the  Italian  humanists,  still  in  Latin,  but  dramatic  in  form  and  appar- 
ently in  intent,  which,  though  it  availed  itself,  like  the  elegiac  school,  of  the 
outworn  situations  and  devices  of  scabrous  amours,  contributed  considerably  to 
the  enrichment  of  the  romantic  strain  by  the  passion  with  which  it  invested  its 
material,  sometimes,  also,  to  the  cause  of  realism  by  its  unconscious,  though 
often  repulsive,  accuracy  of  detail.  Although  Plautus  is  to  some  extent  culti- 
vated, the  Terentian  model  was  still  the  favourite  with  youthful  imitators  until 
study  of  the  older  poet  was  revived  by  the  recovery  of  the  twelve  lost  plays  and 
their  introduction  to  Roman  circles  in  1427.  The  Philologia  of  Petrarch's 
earlier  years  is  accordingly  fashioned  in  the  style  of  Terence,  and  is  even 
reported,  for  it  is  unfortunately  lost,  to  have  surpassed  its  classical  forbears. 
Written  about  1331,  it  was  the  first  product  of  the  new  dramatic  school, 
and  was  succeeded  by  a  numerous  train  of  ambitious  effusions,  —  university 
plays  we  might  call  most  of  them,  —  a  few  witty,  some  sentimental,  many 
libidinous,  all  very  young,  and  still  all,  or  nearly  all,  cleverly  and  regularly 
constructed.  It  concerns  us  here  but  to  mention  the  Paului  of  Vergerio, 
which  Creizenach  dates  1370,  Aretino's  Po/iscene,  about  1390,  Alberti's 
Philodoxeos,  1418,  Ugolino's  Philogena,  some  time  before  1437,  and  Picco- 
lomini's  Criiis,  1444.'  Of  these  erotic  comedies,  —  pornographic  were  per- 
haps a  more  fitting  term,  —  the  most  popular  seems  to  have  been  the  Philogena  ; 
the  most  eminent,  according  to  Creizenach  (but  I  don't  see  why),  the  Crisis. 
The  Paulus  pretends  to  aim  at  the  improvement  of  youth  ;  one  might  for  a 
moment  imagine  that  it  was  intended  to  be  a  prodigal  son  play.  But  in  none 
of  these  plays  is  there  either  punishment  or  repentance.  In  fact  the  unaffected 
verve  with  which  they  display  the  wantonness  of  life  is  not  the  least  of  their 
contributions  to  comedy.  The  Poliscene  is  notable  for  its  modernity  of  man- 

1  For  some  of  these  see  Quadrio,  Delia  Storia  e  della  Ragione  if  ogni  Poesia,  Vol.  III., 
Lib.  II.,  53  et  seif. 


Ixviii  An  Historical  View 

ners  and  of  morals.  The  sole  instance  among  these  plays,  so  far  as  I  can 
ascertain,  of  noble  sentiment  and  harmless  plot  is  the  Philodoxeoi.  The  use 
of  abstract  names  for  the  characters  lends  it,  indeed,  somewhat  the  appearance 
of  a  moral  interlude. 

Of  much  greater  value,  however,  in  the  history  of  the  acted  drama,  and 
of  closer  bearing  upon  the  English  comedy,  wrere  the  representations  of  Plautus 
and  Terence,  first  in  the  Latin  and  ultimately  in  the  vernacular,  which  marked 
the  last  quarter  of  the  fifteenth  century  in  the  courts  of  northern  Italy.  These 
in  turn  were  but  stepping-stones  towards  such  dramatic  dialogues  as  the  Timone 
of  Bojardo,  1494,  and  the  still  more  significant  experiments  of  Anosto  and 
Bibbiena  —  the  first  romantic  comedies  in  prose  and  in  the  native  tongue. 
The  authors  of  the  Suppositi  (acted  in  1509)  and  the  Calandria  (written  in 
1 508,  but  not  presented  till  six  years  later)  derive  much  from  Roman 
sources,  but  in  general  these  comedies  and  their  like  were  original.  Their 
influence  upon  our  own  plays  ot  romantic  intrigue  will  presently  appear. 
So,  likewise,  will  that  of  a  Spanish  work,  of  even  earlier  date,  the  dramatic 
novel  of  Calisto  and  Melibcea ;  for  this  tragic  production  of  Cota  and  De 
Rojas  is  the  source  of  our  first  English  romantic  drama.  The  connection 
between  other  forms  of  Italian  drama,  the  Commedia  decl*  arte,  the  pastoral 
drama,  etc.,  and  the  later  stage  in  western  Europe  has  been  ably  discussed  by 
Klein,  Moland,  Symonds,  and  Ward  ;  and  to  them  I  must  refer  the  reader 
of  this  more  summary  account. 

The  decade  that  saw  the  first  of  Hey  wood's  virile  plays  was  probably 
that  which  welcomed  to  England  the  ebullient,  un-English  passions  of  a  dra- 
matic species  destined  to  develop  the  native  stock  in  a  far  different  manner. 
"A  new  commodye  in  englyshe,  in  maner  of  an  enterlude,"  ordinarily  called 
Calisto  and  Melibcea,  is  the  earliest  romantic  play  of  intrigue  in  our  language. 
It  was  "caused  to  be  printed"  by  that  excellent  promoter  of  the  dramatic 
art,  John  Rastell,  about  I  530,  and  was  written  —  perhaps  by  him  —  not  long 
before.  The  appellation  "  commodye  "  had  been  used  during  the  same  decade 
with  reference  to  the  English  translation  of  the  Andria  (about  1520-29)  ; 
it  is  here  used  for  the  first  time  on  the  title-page  of  an  English  play.  And  this 
interesting  interlude  may,  indeed,  well  be  called  both  English  and  comedy  ; 
for  though  it  derives  from  romance  sources  (the  Spanish  dramatic  composition 
by  Fernando  de  Rojas,  before  1500),  and  is  affected  by  the  Italian,  it  does 
not  follow  exactly  the  plot  of  its  original  ;  and  though  it  is  "  reduced  to  the 
proportions  of  an  interlude,"  it  treats  of  an  idea  not  farcical,  but  significant, 
and  it  develops  the  motives  of  real  characters,  by  way  of  action,  passion,  and 
intrigue,  to  a  happy  conclusion  within  the  realm  of  convention  and  common 
sense.  It  is,  indeed,  a  comedy,  perhaps  our  first  well-rounded  comedy, 


of  English  Comedy  Ixix 

though  in  miniature.  The  Secunda  Pasforum  it  excels  in  singleness  of  aim  ; 
the  Pardoner  and  Frere  and  the  Johan,  in  meaning  for  life.  It  excels  all 
preceding  interludes  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  purpose,  now  for  the  first  time 
announced  in  English  drama,  "  to  shew  and  to  describe  as  well  the  bewte 
and  good  propertes  of  women  as  theyr  vyces  and  evyll  condicions."  For 
the  first  time  since  plays  became  secular,  women  are  introduced,  not  as  the 
objects  of  scurrility  and  ridicule,  but  as  dramatic  material  of  an  a'sthetic, 
moral,  and  intellectual  value  equal  to  that  of  men.  What  the  author  of  Johan 
did  for  the  amusing  and  real  action  desirable  in  a  comedy,  the  author  of  this 
play  did  for  vital  characterization  and  passion.  Melibcea  is  the  first  heroine 
of  our  romantic  comedy  ;  she  is  so  fair  that  for  her  lover  there  is  "  no  such 
sovereign  in  heaven,  though  she  be  in  earth."  She  is,  if  the  play  was  written 
before  the  P/ay  of  Love,  our  earliest  heroine  "loved,  not  loving."  She  is  a 
woman  and  pitiful  and  to  be  wooed  ;  frail  and  repentant  ;  but  then  indignant 
and  not  to  be  won.  Calisto  is,  likewise,  our  first  lover  in  despair.  This 
element  of  woman  worship  —  not  worship  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  or  traditional 
interest  in  the  Magdalene  or  any  other  saint  —  is  no  slight  contribution  to  the 
material  of  comedy.  The  intrigue  of  the  play,  —  the  foils  of  character  and 
action,  the  go-betweens,  the  plot  within  plot  introduced  by  Celestina,  her 
realistic  account  of  Sempronio's  character,  her  device  of  the  "  girdle,"  the  mys- 
terious agency  of  the  dream,  —  no  better  indication  of  romantic  tendency  can 
be  detected  until  we  reach  Redford's  play  of  Wit  and  Science,  of  which  pres- 
ently. But  first,  and  that  we  may  keep  in  mind  the  parallelism  of  dramatic 
tendencies  in  this  momentous  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century,  let  us  turn  to 
another  stream,  that  of  the  school  interludes  and  the  classical  influence. 


10.  The  Period  of  Transition :  School  Interlude  and  Controversial  Moral 

During  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  early  sixteenth,  influences  of  impor- 
tance to  English  comedy  proceed  not  from  the  literature  of  Italy  and  Spain  alone. 
In  northern  Europe  additions  most  significant  to  the  history  of  the  type  were 
making.  To  the  crop  of  French  softies,  moralit'es,  and  farces  I  have  already 
referred.  The  German  Reuchlin  in  1498  put  forth  a  roaring  Latin  comedy 
called  the  Henna,  which,  in  modern  Teremian  style,  embodied  the  chicaneries 
of  Pathelin.  About  the  same  time  the  Germans  began  to  'make  the  ac- 
quaintance, through  translations  in  their  own  tongue,  of  highly  flavoured 
Italian  Latin  plays  like  the  Poliscene  and  the  Philogenia  ;  while  those  of  them 
who  cared  not  for  such  things  were  favoured  with  a  recrudescence  of  the 
Christian  Terence  school.  In  I  507  the  young  humanist,  Kiliau  Renter,  in 


Ixx  An  Historical  View 

imitation  of  the  nun  of  Gandersheim,  produced  in  Latin  his  pious  comedy 
depicting  the  passion  of  St.  Dorothea.  In  Holland,  meanwhile,  were 
springing  into  existence  the  Latin  prototypes  of  more  than  one  of  our  own 
didactic  interludes  ;  for  in  the  comedia  sacra  the  attempt  was  made  to  com- 
bine the  intrigue  of  the  Italian  university  play  with  the  moral  of  the  prodigal 
son  and  the  technique  of  the  Terentian  drama.  The  more  important  of  these 
plays  of  the  prodigal  son,  in  respect  of  influence  upon  English  comedy,  are 
the  Asotus  of  Macropedius,  written  before  1529,  and  his  Rebelles,  1535,  the 
Acolastus  of  Gnapheus,  i  529,  and  the  Studentes  of  Stymmelius,  i  549.  The 
most  dramatic  of  them  are  the  second  and  third  as  mentioned.  The  Acolastus, 
indeed,  translated  into  English  by  Palsgrave  in  I  540,  exerted  a  long-enduring 
influence  upon  our  drama.  To  the  same  period  belong  also  a  species  of  bib- 
lical comedies  dealing  with  heroes,  like  the  Joseph  of  the  Dutch  Jesuit,  Cro- 
cus, 1535,  and  the  Susanna,  Judith,  Eli,  Ruth,  Job,  Solomon,  Goliath,  etc., 
of  Macropedius,  the  Swiss  Sixt  Rirck,  and  others  ;  and  another  kind  of  play 
that  occupied  itself  with  prototypes  of  the  Roman  Antichrist,  —  Haman, 
Judas,  and  the  like.  The  former  may  be  called  the  idyllic  or  heroic  miracle, 
the  latter  the  polemic.  And  of  the  latter  the  most  influential  development 
was  the  controversial  interlude,  Pammachius,  written  by  the  German  Protestant 
Naogeorgos  (Kirchmayer)  and  dedicated  to  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
By  i  545  this  play,  in  which  the  Pope  figures  as  the  Antichrist,  had  not  only 
been  acted  at  Cambridge  in  the  original,  but  translated  into  English  by  our 
own  John  Bale  ;  and,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  it  was,  somewhere  between 
i  540  and  i  548,  imitated  by  him  in  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of  our  contro- 
versial dramas.1 

Of  the  cultivation  of  the  drama  in  Latin  in  England  I  have  already  made 
mention  in  treating  of  the  saints'  plays  and  the  Terentian  drama  of  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries.  Other  indications  of  a  Latin  drama  occur,  although 
infrequently.  William  Fitzstephen,  who  speaks  of  the  Indus  given  by  Geof- 
frey's boys  at  Dunstable,  tells  us,  also,  that  it  was  customary  on  feast  days 
for  masters  of  schools  to  hold  festival  meetings  in  the  churches,  when  the 
pupils  contested,  not  only  in  disputations,  but  also  with  Fescennine  license  in 
satirical  verses  touching  "  the  faults  of  school-fellows  or  perhaps  of  greater 
people"  ;  a  practice  which  could  only  with  difficulty  escape  development 
into  a  rude  Aristophanic  comedy.  We  have  mention  also  of  perquisites  for  a 
comcedia  in  one  of  the  Cambridge  colleges  as  early  as  1386,  evidently  of  the 
Latin  type,  and  of  the  presentation  of  a  goodly  comedy  of  Plautus  at  court  in 
1520.  Between  1522  and  1532  the  Master  of  St.  Paul's  produced  a  Latin 

1   For  the  substance  of  this  paragraph  see  the  histories  of  Klein,  Herford,  and  Creizenach. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxi 

school  drama  of  Dido  before  Wolsey,  and  according  to  Collier's  supposition,1 
the  same  John  Ritwyse  was  the  author  of  the  satiric  interlude,  in  Latin  and 
French,  of  Luther  and  his  wife,  which  was  acted  for  the  delectation  of  the 
not  yet  reformed  Henry  and  his  foreign  guests  in  1527.  Of  the  nature  of 
this  play,  unfortunately  lost,  some  conception  may  be  gathered  from  the  still  sur- 
viving list  ot  its  characters  (allegorical,  religious,  and  contemporary),  from  the 
analogous  LuJus  luJentem  Luderum  ludens,  1530,  and  the  somewhat  more  re- 
cent and  most  scurrilous  Moritichopornomachia,  both  by  Germans.  Before  I  530 
and  apparently  with  a  view  to  acting,  the  Andria  had  been  turned  into  Eng- 
lish,2 and  by  1535  at  least  two  Latin  comedies  of  moral-mythological  character 
had  been  written  by  Artour  ot  Cambridge,  and  one,  the  Piscator,  by  Hoker 
of  Oxford.3  We  have  word  of  a  dramatic  pageant  in  English  and  Latin  to 
which  Udall  contributed  in  1532  ;  in  1534  he  issued  a  book  of  selections 
entitled  Fleers  of  Terence.  In  I  540  Palsgrave  had  introduced  the  prodigal 
son  drama  from  Germany;  and  by  1545  Bale  had  followed  suit  with  a 
Latin  play  of  Antichrist.  During  the  same  period  Udall  was  producing  his 
plures  corncfdief,  now  lost,  and  that  other  schoolmaster-dramatist,  Radcliffe 
of  Hitchin,  was  writing  spectacula  sitnul  jucunda  et  honesta  for  his  boys 
to  present,  —  heroic  miracles  of  the  type  affected  by  Macropedius,  and  a 
romantic  comedy  of  Griselda,  probably  all  in  Latin,  but  unfortunately  all 
vanished. 

The  importance  of  the  English  school  drama  has  been  well  presented  by 
Professor  Herford  and  Dr.  Ward,  but  there  is  something  in  the  name  that 
leads  the  ordinary  reader  to  underrate  the  genus.  A  word  or  so  by  way 
of  classification  may  be  of  assistance.  These  interludes  fall  naturally  into 
four  kinds.  Those  that  ridicule  folly,  vain  pretension,  and  conceit,  or 
Mirth  plays,  —  plays  after  the  model  of  Plautus,  mock-heroic,  or  purely 
diverting,  like  the  Thcrsytes.  Those  that  are  pedagogical  in  tendency, 
directed  against  idleness  and  ignorance,  or  Wit  plays.  They  began  with 
Rastell's  Four  Elements,  and  reached  their  highest  mark  in  the  Contract 
between  Witt  and  Wisdome.  Those  that  portray  the  conflict  with  the  ex- 
cesses and  lusts  of  the  flesh,  or  Youth  plays.  They  consist  of  such  pro- 
ductions as  Mankind,  Nature,  Hyckescorner,  and  reach  their  climax,  about 
1554,  in  the  Interlude  of  Youth.  The  school  drama  includes,  in  the  last 
place,  a  series  corrective  of  parental  indulgence  and  filial  disobedience,  aptly 
called  Prodigal  Son  plays.  These  are  patterned  upon  Terence,  but  follow  the 
manner  of  Dutch  school  plays  like  the  Acolastus  or  of  the  still  earlier  French 

1  R.   Dr.  I'o.,  I.   107,  from  Gibson's  Accounts. 

2  Warton,  H.  Eng.   Po.   (1871  ),  IV.   323. 
8  Herford,  Lit.  Re!.,  pp.   107-108. 


Ixxii  An  Historical  View 

moralites,  Bien-Avis'e  et  Mal-Avis'e,  V Homme  pecheur,  and  Les  Enfants  de 
Maintenant.  They  make  more  or  less  use  of  the  scriptural  motif  and  are 
sometimes  tragical.  In  the  period  under  consideration  their  best  representatives 
are  the  Nice  Wanton  and  the  Disobedient  Child.  From  the  point  of  view  of 
comedy  the  first  of  these  kinds,  the  Mirth  play,  occupies  a  place  by  itself;  for, 
though  it  may  sometimes  intend  to  teach,  it  always  aims  at,  and  achieves, 
laughter.  To  the  three  remaining  kinds,  we  must  for  convenience,  join, 
however,  another  which,  though  not  of  the  school  species,  is  primarily 
didactic,  —  I  mean  the  controversial  interlude.  This  includes  Bale's  King 
Johan,  Wever's  Lusfy  Juvetitus,  and  the  Respublica. 

In  the  Mirth  play,  1'hcrsytes,  the  influence  of  Plautus  is  evident,  —  a  school 
play,  to  be  sure,  but  written  with  a  view  to  amusement  or  rollicking  satire 
rather  than  instruction.  Acted  in  1537,  this  "  enterlude  "  has  for  its  hero  a 
"  ruffler  forth  of  the  Greke  lande  "  whose  "crakying"  stands  half-way  be- 
tween the  classical  Pyrgopolinices  and  Thraso  and  the  modern  Roister  Doister. 
For  all  its  academic  flavour,  the  burlesque  is  coarse  and  crude,  but  still 
genuinely  humorous.  It  deserves  notice,  in  especial,  for  the  variety  of  its 
contents,  chivalric,  romantic,  popular,  scriptural  as  well  as  Greek  and  Latin  ; 
also  for  its  artistic  exhibition  of  the  braggart,  —  the  leisurely  proceeding  of 
his  discomfiture,  the  subordination  of  other  characters  to  that  end  ;  and  for 
its  mastery  of  technical  devices,  —  concealment,  magic,  the  play  upon  the 
word,  and  that  hunting  of  the  word  and  letter  which  was  so  soon  to  drive 
conversation  out  of  its  wits.  As  an  interlude  of  foreign  origin,  the  Thersytes 
has  a  place  in  the  development  of  the  comic  element  somewhat  analogous 
to  that  of  the  Calisto  in  the  development  of  the  romantic.  As  far  as  the 
quality  of  mirth  is  concerned  it  might  be  classed  with  Roister  Doister  and  Jacke 
Jugeler  ;  but  those  plays  are  much  more  highly  developed  in  form  and  spirit, 
and  must  be  reserved  for  consideration  with  the  polytypic,  and  early  regular, 
comedy. 

The  remaining  classes  of  interlude  are  manifestly  didactic  ;  those  of  Wit 
and  Youth  derive,  however,  more  directly  from  native  sources,  while  those 
of  the  Prodigal  Son  have  close  affiliation  with  the  Christian  Terence  of  the 
continental  humanists. 

Redford's  Wyt  and  Science,  composed  probably  between  i  541  and  1547, 
is,  in  form  and  intent,  like  Lusty  Juventus  and  other  survivals  of  the  moral 
interlude.  It  differs,  however,  in  company  with  the  Four  Elements  and 
other  Wit  plays,  in  substituting  a  scientific  for  a  religious  purpose  ;  and  it 
adds  a  feature  not  to  be  found  in  earlier  kinds  of  moral,  a  chivalrous  ideal 
of  love  and  adventure,  academic,  to  be  sure,  but  unmistakable.  This  ap- 
pears in  the  wooing  of  I/uly  Science  by  Wyt,  and  his  encounter  with  the 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxiii 

tyrant  or  fiend  Tediousness  "  for  my  dere  hartes  sake  to  wynne  my  spurres  ;  " 
in  the  hero's  inconstancy,  defeat,  and  subsequent  success,  and  in  the  dramatic 
employment  of"  romantic  instruments  and  tokens,  such  as  the  magic  glass 
and  the  sword  of  comfort  ;  also  in  the  love  songs.  All  of  these  and 
similar  features  of  which  the  sources  arc  not  entirely  continental  make 
for  the  development  of  a  romantic  and  humanistic  drama.  Jt  may  he- 
worth  noticing,  moreover,  that  the  fiend  of  the  play  is  neither  Vice  nor 
Devil.  He  seems  to  be  a  cross  between  the  Devil  of  the  miracles  and 
a  monster  of  native  as  well  as  scriptural  ancestry  (an  early  draft  of  Giant 
Despair),  who  figures  in  a  modernization  of  this  play,  The  Marriage  of 
Witte  and  Science.  In  chronological  sequence  the  next  of  the  Wit  plays 
is  the  Contract  of  a  Marrige  betweene  Wit  and  Wisdome  (not  Wit  and 
Science,  as  Professor  Brandl  has  it).  This  was  probably  written  about 
the  same  time  as  the  Lusty  Juvcntus.  The  mention  of  the  King's  most 
"royal  majestic"  and  the  appearance  of  the  Vice  Idleness  as  a  priest  would 
point  to  a  date  earlier  than  1553,  while  the  resemblance  to  Redford's  play, 
though  by  no  means  close,  indicates  posteriority  to  that  much  cruder  produc- 
tion. The  division  into  acts  and  scenes  is,  on  the  other  hand,  less  elaborate 
than  that  obtaining  in  the  latest  play  of  this  series,  The  Marriage  of  Witte 
and  Science.  The  Contract  is  altogether  the  most  meritorious  of  those  academic 
predecessors  of  the  drama  of  the  Prodigal  Son  which  introduce  the  indul- 
gent mother  as  a  motive  force.  While  the  conception  is  formal  and  didactic, 
the  action  avails  itself,  like  Redford's  play,  of  the  romantic  element  involved 
in  the  perilous  adventure  for  love.  The  Contract,  moreover,  startles  the 
sober  atmosphere  of  the  moral  interlude  by  a  rapidity  of  movement,  a  com- 
bination of  plots  major  and  minor,  a  diversity  of  subordinate  characters  and 
incidents  altogether  unprecedented.  The  racy  and  natural  wit,  the  equi- 
voque, the  actual,  even  if  vulgar,  humanity  of  the  scenes  from  low  life, 
and  the  skill  with  which  the  Mother  Bees,  the  Dols  and  Lobs,  Snatches 
and  Catches,  the  Constable,  and  the  thoroughly  rustic  \  ice  with  his  actual 
resemblance  to  Diccon  the  Bedlem,  are  dovetailed  into  the  action,  —  these 
properties  make  this  a  very  commendable  predecessor,  not  only  of  Gammer 
Gurton,  but  of  certain  plays  of  Dekker  and  Jonson  where  similar  features 
obtain.  With  the  Contract,  the  interlude  of  this  kind  attains  its  climax. 
The  Marriage  of  Witte  and  Science,  which  is  a  revision  of  Redford's  play 
of  similar  name,  must  also  be  mentioned  here,  although  it  is  a  postliminious 
specimen  of  the  type.  Not  licensed  until  I  09-~o,  and,  according  to 
Fleay,  acted  as  Wit  and  Will,  1^67-78,'  it  adds  nothing  vital  to  the  plot 
or  characters  of  its  model.  Still,  in  literary  and  dramatic  handling,  it  is 

1  Hhtorf  of  the  Stage,  p.  64. 


Ixxiv  An  Historical  View 

an  example  of  the  perfection  to  which  the  moral  play  could  come.  Collier, 
indeed,  has  said  that  it  was  the  first  play  of  its  kind  regularly  divided  into 
acts  and  scenes  with  indication  of  the  same  :  but  that  is  not  true,  for  the 
Respublica  of  1553  has  five  acts  and  the  proper  arrangement  in  scenes; 
and  so  have  other  plays  of  1553  or  earlier,  though  of  different  kind,  like  the 
Jacob  and  Esau. 

If  now  we  pass  to  the  Youth  plays,  we  shall  find  in  the  Interlude  of  Youth 
(about  I  554)  the  culmination  of  dramatic  efforts  to  portray  the  sowing  of  wild 
oats,  —  efforts  avowedly  moral  in  purpose,  but  with  a  reminiscent  smack  of  the 
lips  and  a  fellow-feeling  for  the  scapegrace.  The  Interlude  of  Youth  is  char- 
acterized neither  by  the  unbridled  merriment  of  the  Miles  Gloriosus  type  nor  by 
the  depth  or  pathos  of  dramas  portraying  solicitous  parents  and  prodigal  sons  ; 
but  it  paves  the  way  for  '  tragical '  comedies  of  this  latter  class,  and  is  infi- 
nitely more  dramatic,  because  more  human,  than  the  pedagogical  onslaughts 
upon  idleness,  irksomeness,  ignorance,  and  the  like  of  which  we  have  just 
treated.  It  has,  perhaps,  not  been  noticed  that  the  Interlude  of  Youth  holds 
about  the  same  relation  to  Hyckescortier  in  matter  of  motive  and  treatment  that 
Hyckescorner  holds  to  the  Four  Elements  and  Mankind,  —  indeed,  a  closer 
relation,  for  in  many  details  of  character,  device,  situation,  as  well  as  by  literal 
transference  of  language,  it  borrows  from  Hyckescorner.  This  as  indicating  the 
descent  of  the  species  is  in  itself  interesting.  But  the  present  play  generally 
improves  upon  all  that  it  derives.  In  addition,  the  vivid  conversation,  shrewd 
and  waggish  wit,  local  colouring,  atmosphere  of  taverns,  dicing,  cards,  and 
worse  iniquities,  justify,  I  think,  the  statement  that  it  is  at  once  the  most 
realistic,  amusing,  and  graceful  specimen  of  its  kind.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  as 
•artistic  as  a  didactic  interlude  could  permit  itself  to  be. 

One  cannot  consider  the  so-called  Prodigal  Son  interludes,  without  observ- 
ing that  the  theme  itself  supplies  an  opportunity  for  the  enlargement  of  dra- 
matic endeavour.  For  these  productions  are  directed  as  much  against  parental 
indulgence  as  against  filial  disobedience.  The  "  Preaty  Interlude  called  Nice 
Wanton,"1  printed  in  1560,  was  written  before  the  death  of  Edward  VI. 
Though  it  may  have  derived  suggestions  from  the  Rebelles J  of  Macropedius, 
I  535,  it  is  of  its  own  originality  and  dramatic  merit,  in  my  opinion,  the  best 
of  its  class  in  English  at  the  time  of  writing.  While  it  presents  a  mixture  of 
scriptural,  classical,  and  moral  elements,  it  is  essentially  a  modern  production. 

1  Brandl,  Quellen,  LXII.  5  cf.  Herford,  Lit.  Re/.,  p.  156.  To  trace  the  suggestion  of  the 
model  of  Barnabas  to  the  StuJentes  of  Stymmelius,  1549,  is,  I  think,  absurd.  It  is  strange 
that  Creizenach,  Grscb.  d.  neu.  Dr.,  I.  470,  should  assert,  in  face  of  the  Nice  Wanton  and  The 
G/asse  of  Government,  that  no  English  '  moral  '  avails  itself  of  tvvo  representatives  of  the 
human  race  —  a  good  and  an  evil. 


of  Eng/is/i  Comedy  Ixxv 

The  allegorical  lingers  only  in  the  character  of  Worldly  Shame.  If"  this  be 
eliminated,  there  remains  a  play  with  realistic,  romantic,  and  ideal  qualities,  an 
air  of  probability,  and  a  plot  well  conceived  and  excellently  completed. 
Iniquity,  or  Baily  errand,  is  a  concrete  Vice,  working  by  actual  and  possible 
methods.  The  unfortunate  heroine  and  the  well-contrasted  pairs  of  mothers 
and  sons  are  manifest  not  only  by  their  deeds  but  by  the  opinions  of  those  who 
know  them.  The  plot,  in  other  words,  grows  out  of  the  characters  ;  it  is 
full  of  incident,  and  it  falls  naturally  into  acts,  which  have  been  elaborated  in 
various  and  dramatically  interesting  scenes.  The  movements,  on  the  one  hand 
toward  a  catastrophe,  on  the  other  toward  the  triumph  of  right  living,  are  con- 
ducted with  skilful  suspense,  surprise,  discovery,  and  revolution,  and  are  well 
interwoven.  The  conversations  and  songs  are  racy  or  sober  according  to  the 
conditions  ;  the  combination  of  aesthetic  qualities,  comic,  tragic,  and  pathetic,  is 
an  agreeable  advance  upon  the  inartistic  extremes  afforded  by  most  of  the  contem- 
porary interludes  of  moral  intent.  The  next  of  these  plays,  the  "pretie  and 
mery  new  interlude  called  The  Disobedient  Child,  by  Thomas  Ingeland,  late 
Student  at  Cambridge,"  was  acted,  Mr.  Fleay  thinks,  before  Elizabeth  in 
March,  1560—61.  Though  it  was  not  published  till  1564,  it  was  certainly, 
like  the  Nice  Wanton,  written  before  1553.  The  purpose  is  serious  and  the 
conclusion  almost  tragic,  but  the  play  contributes  to  the  comedy  of  domestic 
satire.  If  the  main  characters  were  but  indicated  by  name,  like  those  below 
stairs,  Blanche  and  Long-Tongue,  this  picturesque  and  wholly  dramatic  inter- 
lude would  have  attracted  more  notice  than  has  been  vouchsafed  it.  Its  literary 
merits,  verse,  poetic  feeling  and  expression,  and  its  natural  dialogue  entitle  it 
to  high  consideration  ;  its  decidedly  novel  dramatic  qualities,  even  though  they 
bear  a  general  resemblance  to  the  Studentes  J  of  Stymmelius,  rank  it  with  the 
Nice  Wanton  as  one  of  the  most  vigorous  of  our  early  representatives  of  the 
dramatic  actualities  of  family  life. 

For  reasons  which  I  have  already  indicated,  the  controversial  plays  of  the 
period  between  1520  and  1553  may  be  considered  here.  The  first  of  these 
in  chronological  order  is  Bale's  King  Johan,  about  1540—47,  with  later 
insertions  in  the  author's  hand.  Its  relation  to  Lyndsay's  satire  of  the  Thrie 
Estatis  is  well  known  ;  and  Professor  Herford  -  has  indicated  its  indebtedness 
also  to  the  Pammachius  and  the  Protestant  version  of  the  antichrist  legend. 
It  is  a  dramatic  satire  on  the  abuses  of  the  church,  its  riches,  orders,  brother- 
hoods, confessionals,  simony,  free  thought,  mummery  (judaistic  and  pagan), 
Latin  ritual,  hagiolatry,  and  papal  supremacy.  Few  more  excellent  embodi- 
ments of  the  Vice  have  been  preserved  than  the  Sedycyon  of  this  play,  who 
in  every  estate  of  the  clergy  plays  a  part,  sometimes  monk,  sometimes  nun,  or 

1  Brandl,  Dueller,,  LXXIII.  ;    and   Hrrtonl,   Lit.    Rcl.  •  Lit.   Rel.,  p.    l^-. 


Ixxvi  An  Historical  View 

canon,  or  chapter-house  monk,  or  Sir  John,  or  the  parson,  or  the  bishop,  or 
the  friar,  or  the  purgatory  priest  and  every  man's  wife's  desire  :  — 

"  Yea,  to  go  farder,  sumtyme  I  am  a  cardynall  ; 
Yea,  sumtyme  a  pope  and  than  am  I  lord  over  all, 
Both  in  hevyn  and  erthe  and  also  in  purgatory, 
And  do  weare  iij  crownes  whan  I  am  in  my  glorye." 

In  spite  of  Professor  Schelling's1  recent  rejection  of  King  Johan  from  the 
list  of  chronicle  plays,  I  cannot  but  agree  with  Dr.  Ward  that  this  moral  is 
of  considerable  importance  in  the  history  of  that  species.  That  it  uses  history 
merely  as  the  cloak  for  a  religio-political  allegory,  and  that  it  does  not  quite 
succeed  in  drawing  together  the  points  of  fact  and  fiction  in  the  development 
of  action  and  character,  — these  defects  do  not  alter  its  significance  as  the  first 
English  play  to  incarnate  the  political  spirit  of  its  age  in  a  form  imaginatively 
attributed  to  an  earlier  period  of  native  history.  Although  it  is  not  a  comedy, 
it  concerns  us  here  as  a  drama  of  critical  and  satirical  intent.  It  is  succeeded 
by  plays  like  Lusty  Juventus  and  Respublica,  \vhich  deal  more  or  less  with 
political  affairs,  and  interest  us  because  they  enliven  the  controversial  by  the 
introduction  of  the  realistic  and  comic,  and,  accordingly,  in  an  age  when  po- 
lemics was  politics,  contribute  to  the  improvement  of  comedy  by  shaping  it 
more  or  less  to  a  medium  for  the  dissemination  of  practical  ideas.  More- 
over, though  Bale  had  no  disciples  in  the  attempt  to  construct  an  historical 
protestant  drama,  he  may  be  said  to  have  prepared  the  way  for  a  protestant 
series  of  another  kind.  This  is  what  Professor  Herford  has  well  called  the 
biblical  genre  drama  ;  it  is  pedagogical  and  controversial,  and,  like  the  King 
Johan,  its  representatives,  also,  such  as  the  Darius  and  Queen  Hester,  had 
their  precursors,  and  probably  their  models,  more  or  less  distant,  in  the  idyllic 
or  heroic  miracle  of  the  Dutch  and  German  humanists. 

R.  Wever's  Lusty  Juventus,  written  about  I55O,1  is  of  the  dramatic 
kindred  of  Mankind  and  Nature.  Its  characters  are  allegorical  in  name  but 
concrete  in  person  ;  and  one  of  them,  Abhominable  Living,  passes,  also, 
under  the  appellation  of  "  litle  Besse."  The  conversations  are  sprightly,  and 
the  songs  show  considerable  lyric  power.  But  the  play  is  a  protestant 
polemic,  and  its  success  must  have  depended  to  a  large  extent  upon  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  satire  against 

1  The  English  Chronicle  Play. 

2  Hawkins,  Engl.  Drama,  I.  145,  quotes  a  passage  from  one  of  Latimer's  sermons  in  the 
presence  of  Edward  VI.,  which  uses  the  story  of  "  drave  me  aboute  the  toune  with  a  puddynge," 
referred  to  in  Lusty  jfuventus. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxvii 

"  Holy  cardinals,  holy  popes, 
Holy  vestments,  holy  copes," 

and  various  alleged  hypocrisies  and  excesses  of  the  Church  of  Rome.  That 
this  play  had  a  long  life  is  shown  by  its  insertion,  though  under  the  designa- 
tion of  an  interlude  with  which  it  had  nothing  in  common,1  as  a  play  within  a 
play  in  the  tragedy  of  Sir  Thomas  More  (about  1590).  The  "merye  En- 
terlude  "  Respublica,  1553,  a  children's  Christmas  play,  sustains  somewhat  the 
same  relation  to  political  Catholicism  as  King  Johan  to  Protestantism  —  with- 
out the  polemics  of  dogma.  Here,  as  in  the  preceding  political  moral  of  King 
Johan,  the  Vice  is  used  for  a  satirical  purpose,  and  is  not  only  the  chief 
mischief-maker,  but,  also,  the  principal  representative  of  the  comic  role.  In 
this  play,  the  Vice  is  so  highly  considered  that  the  author,  probably  a  priest, 
multiplies  him  by  four,  and,  by  way  of  foil,  offsets  the  group  with  that  of  the 
four  Virtues,  daughters  of  God,  whose  presence  in  the  eleventh  Coventry  play 
and  in  Mankind  has  already  been  noticed.  I  don't  see  how  Collier  can  call 
the  construction  of  Respublica  ingenious  ;  it  is  childish,  clumsy,  and  trite. 
The  humour  consists  in  old-fashioned  disguises  and  aliases,  equivoque,  misun- 
derstanding, and  abuse.  But  the  character  of  Avarice,  who,  with  his  money 
bags,  anticipates  the  Suckdrys  and  Lucres  of  later  comedy,  is  well  conceived, 
the  conduct  natural,  the  language  simple  and  colloquial.  Of  historical  interest 
is  the  introduction  of  Queen  Mary  as  Nemesis  ;  of  linguistic,  the  attempt  to 
reproduce  the  dialect  of  the  common  people  ;  of  dramatic,  the  division  into 
acts  and  scenes,  which  is  to  be  found  in  but  few  other  plays  of  the  mid- 
century,  such  as  Roister  Doister,  King  Johan,  Jacob  and  Esau,  and  the  Mar- 
riage of  Witte  and  Science. 


ii.   Polytypic,  or  Fusion,  Plays 

With  the  plays  just  mentioned  each  of  the  dramatic  kinds  so  far  considered 
reaches  its  artistic  limit.  These  kinds,  however,  during  the  decades  roughly 
coincident  with  the  years  between  1545  and  1566,  enter  into  combinations, 
by  virtue  of  which  English  comedy  is  assisted  to  a  still  further  advance. 
The  plays  that  represent  this  stage  of  literary  history  may  be  called  polytypic. 
Roister  Doister  and  Jacke  Jugeler  subordinate  the  materials  of  academic  inter- 
lude and  classical  farce  to  classical  regulations.  Into  the  Historie  of  Jacob 
and  Esau  enter  characteristics  of  miracle  play,  moral,  realistic  interlude,  and 
classical  comedy.  Gammer  Gurton  and  Tom  Tyler  (of  about  the  same  date) 

1   The  Marriage  of  Wit  and  Whdome. 


Ixxviii  An  Historical  View 

subsume,  under  the  domestic  play  of  low  life,  native  elements  of  both  farce  and 
moral.  Misogonus  combines  elements  of  moral  interlude  and  farce  with 
qualities  native  and  foreign,  classical  and  romantic.  These  are  followed  by 
the  biblical  genre  drama  of  Godly  Queen  Hester,  partly  political  and  partly 
pedagogical  in  intent.  In  the  first  rive  of  these  plays  the  tendency  to  teach 
is  reduced  almost  to  a  minimum.  In  the  Misogonus  and  Hester  it  is  present, 
but  is  counterbalanced  by  romantic  or  satirical  considerations.  When,  how- 
ever, we  reach  the  Damon  and  Pythias  and  The  Supposes,  the  didactic  has 
disappeared  altogether  in  favour  of  the  truly  artistic  motive.  These  plays  at 
last  combine  the  comic  and  serious,  the  real,  the  romantic,  and  the  ideal. 
They  are  constructive,  not  primarily  critical ;  in  fact,  they  must  be  regarded 
as  our  first  real  comedies. 

No  play  of  this  division  better  illustrates  the  impress  of  the  classical  model 
upon  native  material  than -Roister  Doister.  This  "  comedie  "  or  "inter- 
lude" was  certainly  in  existence  by  1552  ;  indeed,  it  has  not  yet  been  con- 
clusively shown  that  it  was  not  acted  as  early  as  I  534  to  I  541.  In  the  last 
contingency  it  may  have  anticipated  the  Tbers^tes  ,•  but,  according  to  Pro- 
fessor Flugel's  argument,'  it  was  probably  not  composed  till  after  1545. 
With  the  Tbers^tes  it  has  in  common  several  points  of  detail,  but  the  essen- 
tial resemblance  is,  of  course,  in  the  Plautine  personage  of  the  braggart.  Like 
Heywood  before  him,  Udall  aims  to  produce  that  which  "is  comendable 
for  a  man's  recreation,"  but  the  masterpiece  of  Udall  has  the  advantage  of 
Heywood's  "  mery  plays,"  in  that  its  mirth  "refuses  scurilitie."  In 
Roister  Doister,  also,  more  decidedly  than  in  previous  plays,  the  amusement 
proceeds  not  from  the  situation  alone,  but  from  the  organism,  —a  plot  essen- 
tially and  substantially  dramatic,  because  its  characters  are  concrete,  pur- 
posive, and  interacting.  But  decided  as  was  Udall 's  contribution  to  the  art 
of  comic  drama,  we  must  not  credit  him  with  producing  comedy  proper. 
The  merit  of  Roister  Doister  is  in  its  comic  intent,  its  skilful  characterization 
and  contrivance.  It  is  a  presentation  of  humours,  —  corrective  indeed,  but 
farcical.  It  is  not  significant,  constructive,  poetic,  grounded  in  the  heart  as 
well  as  in  the  head.  A  contribution  to  the  classical  type  contemporary  with 
the  pieceding,  but  of  a  much  more  farcical  and  juvenile  appearance,  is  the 
"new  interlucd  "  named  Jnckr  ^Jitgelcr,  written  not  hirer  than  1562  and 
perhaps  as  early  as  I  553—54  (after  the  reestablishment  of  the  Mas<  and  before 
the  terrifying  revival  of  the  sanguinary  laws  against  heretics).  Ir  announces 
itself  as  a  school  drama,  and  in  the  prologue  purports  to  have  been  derived 
from  the  Ampbitruo  of  Plautus.  J  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  professed 
modesty  of  the  author  has  led  critics  to  undervalue  the  skill  and  fidelity  of  that 

1  See  below,  p.  96. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxix 

which  was  not  only  the  best  "droll,"  but  also  the  best  dramatic  satire  pro- 
duced in  England  up  to  date.  Within  a  narrow  compass  he  has  developed  a 
humorous  action  quite  novel  in  English  comedy,  and  has  introduced  us,  not 
only  to  the  first  English  double  and  one  of  the  first  English  practical  jokers, 
but,  I  believe,  to  our  first  victim  of  confused  identity.  The  author  is,  of 
course,  following  his  Plautus,  but  what  could  be  more  ludicrous  than  the 
scene  in  which  Jenkin,  uncertain  and  undesirous  of  his  own  acquaintance, 
covers  himself  with  ignominy  in  the  effort  to  discard  it.  We  are  led  from 
interest  to  interest  by  means  of  anticipation,  surprise,  and  the  clever  repetition 
of  comic  crises.  •  Characters  well  drawn  like  Dame  Coy  and  Alison,  distinct 
like  Jacke  and  Jenkin,  suggestive  of  complexity  like  Bongrace,  were  not  of 
everyday  occurrence  in  the  drama  of  1553.  The  language,  too,  is  idiomatic, 
and  the  wit,  though  vulgar,  unforced.  But  perhaps  more  significant  for  our 
purpose  than  any  other  feature  of  the  play  is  this,  that  in  spite  of  its  avowed 
assthetic  intent  (even  more  outspoken  than  that  of  Roister  Doister),  it  is  a 
subtle  attack  upon  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  This  interlude,  says  the 
maker,  citing  the  authority  of  the  classics,  is  written  for  the  express  purpose 
of  provoking  mirth,  and  for  no  other  purpose  :  it  is  "not  worth  an  oyster 
shell  Except  percase  it  shall  fortune  to  make  men  laugh  well";  but  under  the 
artifice  we  find  a  parable  of  the  doctrinal  Jacke  Jugeler  of  the  day,  whose  mis- 
sion it  was  to  prove  that  "  One  man  may  have  two  bodies  and  two  faces, 
And  that  one  man  at  one  time  may  be  in  two  places."  I  do  not  think  that 
the  satirical  character  of  the  play  has  heretofore  been  remarked,  though  the 
controversial  allusions  of  the  epilogue  are,  of  course,  well  known.  The 
innocence  of  the  prologue  and  the  profession  of  trifles  fit  for  "  little  boys  " 
are  as  shrewd  an  irony  as  the  dramatic  attack  upon  transubstantiation  is  a 
huge  burlesque. 

The  third  of  these  fusion  dramas  is  The  Historic  of  Jacob  and  Esau. 
Although  its  title  may  suggest  the  dignity  of  a  miracle  or  the  didacticism  of 
a  moral  play,  it  is  the  reduction  of  the  miracle  to  modern  conditions  and  of 
the  moral  to  concrete  and  actual  characters.  This  "  newe,  mery,  and  wittie 
comedie,  or  enterlude "  was  licensed  in  1557,  but  its  decidedly  protestant 
character  may  indicate  composition  before  Mary's  accession  to  the  throne. 
Collier  is  quite  right  in  calling  it  one  of  the  freshest  and  most  effective  pro- 
ductions of  the  kind  to  which  it  belongs.  But  in  classifying  it  with  early 
religious  plays,  because  the  subject  happens  to  be  scriptural,  he  is  as  far  astray 
as  Professor  Brandl  who  classes  it  with  plays  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  because 
the  nature  of  the  subject  suggests  a  faint  resemblance  to  that  species.  It  is  an 
attempt  at  comedy  by  way  of  fusion.  The  plot  is  in  general  scriptural,  but 
it  introduces  some  half-dozen  invented  characters.  The  production  aims, 


Ixxx  An  Historical  View 

like  a  moral  interlude,  at  inculcating  the  doctrine  of  predestination  ;  but, 
like  a  classical  comedy,  it  is  regularly  divided,  dramatically  constructed,  and 
equipped  with  tried  and  telling  comic  devices.  Proceeding  with  extreme 
care  for  probability,  with  elaboration  of  motive,  with  due  preparation  of 
interest,  enhancement,  and  suspense,  it  attains  a  climax  of  unusual  excel- 
lence, considering  the  date  of  its  composition.  The  discovery  and  denoue- 
ment are  naturally  contrived  ;  and  where  the  author  avails  himself  of  the 
staples  of  his  trade,  the  asides,  disguises,  intrigues,  eavesdropping,  and  the 
rest,  he  does  so  with  the  ease  of  the  accustomed  dramatist.  The  play,  in 
fact,  deserves  as  high  esteem  as  Roister  Doister  and  Gammer  Gurton ;  in 
originality  and  regularity  it  is  their  equal,  in  development  of  a  vital  conception 
their  superior.  The  language  is  idiomatic  —  of  the  age  and  soil  ;  or  dignified, 
when  the  mood  demands.  It  is  also  free  from  obscenity  ;  but  it  lacks  noth- 
ing in  wit  on  that  account,  nor  the  situations  in  humour.  Viewed  as  a  whole, 
it  is  a  simple  and  unaffected  picture  of  English  rural  life  —  the  scene  with  its  set- 
ting as  well  as  its  figures.  And  these  are  coloured  from  experience,  forerun- 
ners, indeed,  of  many  in  our  better-known  comedy  :  the  young  squire  given 
over  to  the  chase,  horses  and  dogs  and  the  horn  at  break  of  day  (much  to  the 
discomfort  of  the  slumbering  environment), — the  careless  elder  born, — 
victim  and  butt  of  his  unnatural  mother  and  her  wily  younger  son  ;  the 
doting  father,  duped  ;  the  clown  ;  the  pert  and  pretty  maid  ;  the  aged  nurse. 
Consider,  in  addition,  the  more  subtle  characteristics  of  the  Jacob  and  Esau, 
—  the  family  resemblances,  the  racial  policy  with  its  ripe  and  ruddy  upper  layer 
of  morals,  the  romantic  touch,  the  sometimes  genuine  pathos,  the  naive  domes- 
tic revelations,  the  loves  in  low  life,  the  unaffected  charms  of  dialogue  and 
verse,  —  and  one  must  acknowledge  that  this  play,  no  matter  what  its  origin 
and  name,  is  at  least  as  indicative  of  the  maturing  of  English  drama  as  either 
of  the  plays  with  which  I  have  placed  it  in  comparison. 

Of  these  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  was  the  first  to  gather  the  threads  of 
farce,  moral  interlude,  and  classical  school  play  into  a  well-sustained  comedy 
of  rustic  life.  Mr.  Henry  Bradley  has  ingeniously  shown  that  in  all  proba- 
bility it  was  a  Christ's  College  play,  written  by  William  Stevenson  during  his 
fellowship  of  1559  to  1560.  There  may,  indeed,  be  reason  for  believing 
that  it  was  composed  as  early  as  the  author's  first  fellowship,  1551— 54. !  In 
this  play  the  unregulated  seductions  of  earlier  days  are  brought  under  the 
curb  of  the  classical  manner  and  form  :  the  native  element  already  evident  in 
Noah's  Flood  and  the  Shepherds1  Plays,  the  Judicium,  the  Conversion  of  St. 
Paul,  the  Johan,  and  the  Pardoner,  and  about  this  same  time  in  the  Contract 

1  See  below,  p.  198.  '  Trueman  '  in  the  Hnt^ria  Histrionica  (pr.  1699  J  thinks  it  was 
"  writ  in  the  reign  of  K.  Edw.  VI." 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxxi 

•» 

betweene  Wit  and  Wisdome  (parts  of  which  suggest  forcibly  the  manner  of 
this  same  Stevenson)  ;  the  rollicking  humour  of  the  Vice  turned  Bedlem,  the 
pithy  and  saline  interchange  of  feminine  amenities  ;  the  Atellan,  sometimes 
even  Chaucerian,  laughter,  —  not  sensual  but  animal  ;  the  delight  in  physical 
incongruity  ;  the  mediaeval  fondness  for  the  grotesque.  If  the  situations 
are  farcical,  they  at  any  rate  hold  together  ;  each  scene  tends  towards  the 
climax  of  the  act,  and  each  act  towards  the  denouement.  The  characters 
are  both  typical  and  individual  ;  and  though  the  conception  is  of  less  signifi- 
cance than  that  of  Roister  'Do/ster,  the  execution  is  an  advance  because  it 
smacks  less  of  the  academic.  Gammer  Gurton  carries  forward  the  comedy 
of  mirth,  but  hardly  yet  into  the  rounded  comedy  of  life. 

Another  "  excellent  old  play,"  called  Tom  Tyler  and  His  Wife1  deserves 
to  be  mentioned  in  this  sequence  because  it  combines  characteristics  of  the  farce 
in  a  peculiar  fashion  with  reminiscences  of  the  moral  interlude.  Tom  T^ler 
was  written  probably  between  1550  and  1560,  and  is  an  admirable  portrayal 
of  matrimonial  infelicities  in  low  lite,  the  forerunner  of  a  series  of  "shrew" 
plays,  not  of  the  nature  of  the  Taming,  but  of  the  Tamer  Tamed.  The 
temporary  revolt  of  the  husband,  "whose  cake  was  dough,"  his  fleeting 
triumph  by  the  ruse  of  the  doughty  Tom  Taylor,  and  his  lapse  into  irremediable 
servitude,  "  for  wedding  and  hanging  is  destinie,"  these  alone  would  make  the 
farce  worthy  of  honourable  mention.  But  the  dialogue  and  songs  are  them- 
selves of  snap,  verve,  and  wit  not  inferior  to  the  best  of  that  day  ;  and  the 
cooperation  of  solemn  allegorical  figures,  such  as  Destinie  and  Patience,  in  the 
humorous  programme  of  Desire  the  Vice,  side  by  side  with  the  three  lusty 
"shrowes,"  Typple,  Sturdy,  and  Strife,  lends  to  the  farce  a  mock-moral 
appearance  which  entitles  it  to  a  place  among  these  polytypic  dramas  historically 
unique.  For  it  should  not  be  regarded  as  an  example  of  the  moral  ir  transition 
from  abstract  to  concrete,  but  as  a  conscious  and  cleverly  ironical  presentation 
of  a  comic  episode  from  utterly  unideal  life,  under  the  form,  and  by  the 
modes  and  machinery,  of  the  pious  allegorical  drama. 

For  the  printing  of  the  next  play  in  this  series,  the  Misogonus,  heretofore 
accessible  only  in  manuscript  at  Chatsworth,  we  are  indebted  to  Professor 
Brandl.1'  This  interesting  moral  comedy  was  written  in  1560,  probably  by 
Thomas  Richardes,:i  whose  name  followes  the  prologue.  Brandl  points  out 
certain  resemblances  to  the  Acolastus  of  Gnapheus,  printed  I  534.  The  con- 
trast of  the  good  and  wayward  sons  might  likewise  be  traced  to  the  Studentes 

1  Bodl.    Libr.,   Mal(jne  172,  "second  impression,"    London,    1 66 1;   reprinted  by  F.   E. 
Schilling,  Publ.  Mod.  Lang.  Assn.,  1900. 
'  Qucllen  u,   Forscbungen, 
8  Not  J.  Rychardes,  as  Mr.  Fleay  has  it,  Hist.  Stage,  p.  58. 


Ixxxii  An  Historical  View 

* 

of  Stymmelius !  (1549),  but  the  more  evident  sources  are  Terence,  the  bibli- 
cal parable,  common  experience,  and  dramatic  imagination,  Professor  Brandl 
thinks  that  the  play  is  connected  with  The  Supposes  or  its  source,  but  I 
must  confess  that  I  cannot  see  the  remotest  relation.  In  Mr.  Fleay's  opinion 
this  is  the  earliest  English  comedy.  I  suppose  because  it  not  only  applies  a 
classical  treatment  to  certain  elements  of  romantic  form,  —  the  Italian  scene  and 
baronial  life,  —  and  of  romantic  content  and  method  such  as  the  ideal  friend- 
ship, the  discovery  and  recognition,  but  combines  therewith  a  realistic  portrayal 
of  native  character,  and  various  technical  qualities  vital  to  both  the  serious 
and  comic  kinds  of  composition.  If,  however,  the  names  of  the  principal 
characters  had  been  English,  the  relation  to  the  moral  interlude  would  at  once 
be  evident.  This  is  a  Prodigal  Son  play  of  the  humanist  school,  save  that  it 
has  supplemented  the  general  characteristics  of  the  Christian  Terence  and  of 
Plautus  by  episodes  and  minor  characters  from  the  native  farce.  Although  it 
is  not  superior  in  technique  to  Roister  or  Gammer  Gurton,  it  is  more  distinc- 
tively polytypic  than  either.  It  is,  also,  of  broader  ethical  significance.  But 
this  dominant  didactic  intent  renders  it  less  of  a  comedy  than  they,  and  much 
less  than  the  Jacob  and  Esau  —  which  is  as  good  a  representative  of  the  fusion 
of  dramatic  kinds  and  qualities  as  the  Misogonus,  and  a  better  specimen  of 
workmanship.  The  simpler  characters  of  the  Misogonus,  Codrus,  poore,  but 
"  trwe  and  trusty  "  ;  the  stammering  Madge  Mumbelcrust,  who  "  coude  once 
a  said  our  lordyes  saw  —  saw  —  sawter  by  rote  "  ;  and  her  gossip  "  Tib,  who 
has  tongue  inough  for  both  ' ' ;  Alison,  who  knows  "  what  a  great  thinge  an  oth 
is  "  ;  and  Sir  John,  the  priest,  who  knows  how  to  use  one,  —  these,  their  ways 
and  colloquies,  are  of  a  piece  with  Stevenson's  work  and  Heywood's  and  the 
world  that  their  work  represents.  The  conditions  and  conduct  of  the  leading 
dramatis  persons  are,  on  the  other  hand,  more  closely  akin  to  the  Plautine 
and  Terentian,  to  the  school  of  Udall  and  the  humanists.  Cacurgus,  the 
domestic  parasite  and  fool,  remotely  connected  with  the  Vice,  but  actually  a 
counterfeit-simple  and  wag,  is  as  good  a  Will  Summer  as  the  early  comedy 
can  boast.  When  Greene  made  his  Nano,  Adam,  and  Slipper,  he  had  in  mind 
a  generation  of  such  creatures.  If  one  could  eliminate  the  sermonizing,  there 
would  remain  a  plot  as  satisfactory  in  unity,  in  situations,  recognitions,  crises, 
and  denouement  as  any  produced  during  the  next  twenty  years.  But,  as  I 
have  said  above,  the  moral  urgency  of  the  play  injures  the  art.  Since  the 
Prodigal  Son  is  reclaimed,  we  are,  however,  justified  in  ranking  the  produc- 
tion among  early  attempts  at  English  comedy. 

Godly  Queen  Hester,  published  1561,-  is  exactly  described  as  a    "  newe 

1  Herford,  Lit.  Rcl.,  p.  i  <;6. 

-  Unique  original,  pub.  by  Pickerynge  and  Hacket,  1561,  in  Duke  of  Devonshire's  Libr., 
Chatsworth  ;   repr.  by  Grosart,  Fuller  Worthies  Libr.,  vol.  IV.,  Miscellanies,  1873. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxxiii 

enterlude  drawen  out  of  the  Holy  Scripture."  According  to  Fleay,  it  is  the 
latest  "  scriptural  morality  "  extant  to  be  acted  on  the  English  stage.1  But  it 
is  much  more  than  a  scriptural  morality.  Not  only  by  its  fusion  of  biblical 
characters,  like  Assuerus  and  Hester,  with  allegorical  types,  like  Pride  and  the 
half-moral,  half-native  Vice,  does  the  play  give  evidence  of  its  polytypic 
nature,  but  by  its  atmosphere,  which  is  charged  with  local  and  personal  allu- 
sions and  ironical  references  to  the  economic  abuses  of  the  day.  In  nervous 
energy  of  style  and  in  forthright  dramatic  movement,  the  play  is  an  improve- 
ment upon  its  predecessors  ;  and  as  a  satirical  drama  of  political  purpose, 
it  should  have  had  a  numerous  progeny.  Strange  to  say,  however,  this  kind 
of  scriptural  satire  has  had  no  great  success  in  the  field  of  English  drama.  Its 
bloom,  as  in  Dryden's  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  has  been  in  the  by-paths  of 
poetry.  Of  a  peculiar  historical  importance  is  the  character  of  Hardy-dardy. 
Mr.  Fleay  regards  him  as  a  domestic  fool,  and  remarks  that  this  interlude 
and  the  Misogonus  are  the  only  two  early  plays  in  which  the  Vice  is  replaced 
by  such  a  personage.  But  neither  of  these  statements  is  correct,  for  Hardy- 
dardy  and  Cacurgus  do  not  totally  abandon  the  quality  of  Vice,  and  various 
other  plays  yet  to  be  mentioned  have  characters  closely  resembling  them. 
Hardy-dardy  is,  indeed,  a  professed  jester  dressed  in  a  fool's  coat  ;  in  his 
assumption  of  stupidity  and  his  proffer  of  service  to  Aman,  he  resembles 
Slipper  in  Greene's  James  the  Fourth  ;  and  in  his  shrewd  simplicity,  repartee, 
and  indirection  he  anticipates  some  of  Shakespeare's  fools.  But  he  still  retains 
characteristics  of  his  ancestry.  He  stands,  in  conception,  half-way  between 
the  minor  Vices  of  the  play,  Ambition,  Adulation,  and  Pride,  to  whose 
jocosities  and  deviltries  he  succeeds,  —  for  he  appears  only  when  they  have 
departed,  — and  the  waggish  weathercocks  of  later  interludes,  Haphazard  and 
Conditions. 

I  wish  I  could  have  included  among  the  reprints  of  the  present  volume 
both  of  the  plays  next  to  be  mentioned,  but  limitations  of  space  and  other 
reasons  have  forbidden.  When  Puttenham  said  that  for  comedy  and  interlude 
such  doings  as  he  had  "  sene  of  Maister  Edwardes  deserved  the  hyest  price," 
and  Turberville,  that  "for  poet's  pen  and  passing  witte,"  that  poet  "could 
have  no  English  Peere,"  I  think  that  they  were  not  greatly  exaggerating. 
Richard  Edwardes'  Damon  and  Pithias,  written  before  1566,  maybe  as  early 
as  1563—65,  takes  steps  significant  in  literary  history.  It  is  hot  only  entirely 
free  from  allegorical  elements,  and  almost  from  didactic,  but  it  is  rich  in  quali- 
ties of  the  fusion  drama.  The  subject  of  a  classical  story  is  handled  in  a 
genuinely  romantic  fashion,  although  no  previous  drama  of  romantic  friend- 

1  As  Hester  and  /ibasuerus,  1594.  I  see  no  reason  for  attributing  the  authorship,  with 
Mr.  Fleay,  to  R.  Edward;-.*. 


Ixxxiv  An  Historical  View 

ship  had  existed  in  England.  Comic  and  serious  strains  flow  side  by  side, 
occasionally  mingling.  A  quick  satire,  dramatic  and  personal,  pervades  the 
play.  The  names  and  scenes  may  be  Syracusan,  and  types  from  Latin  comedy 
may  walk  the  streets,  but  the  life  is  of  the  higher  and  lower  classes  of 
England  ;  and  the  creatures  of  literary  tradition  are  elbowed  and  jostled  by 
children  of  the  soil.  The  farcical  episodes  may  be  indelicate,  but  they  have 
the  virility  of  fact.  The  plot  as  a  whole  is  skilfully  conducted  ;  while  it 
proceeds  directly  to  the  goal,  it  encompasses  a  wider  variety  of  ethical  inter- 
ests, dramatic  motives,  and  attractions,  than  that  of  any  previous  play.  The 
relation  to  an  interlude  of  which  we  shall  presently  speak,  Like  veil  to  Like, 
is  beyond  doubt.  In  both  a  crude  psychological  pairing  and  contrasting  of 
characters  may  be  observed  ;  but  in  the  development  of  the  characters, 
Damon  and  Pithias  is  decidedly  superior.  The  author  calls  this  "a  matter 
mixt  with  myrth  and  care  ...  a  tragical  comedie  " ;  but  while  he  thus 
aims  at  a  fusion  of  the  ideal  with  the  commonplace,  he  makes  a  close  approxi- 
mation, always,  to  probability  of  incident  and  character,  and  so  observes  the 
criterion  which  he  himself  enunciates  :  — 

"In  commedies  the  greatest  skyll  is  this,  lightly  to  touch 
All  thynges  to  the  quicke  ;  and  eke  to  frame  each  person  so 
That  by  his  common  talke,  you  may  his  nature  rightly  know." 

In  its  defects,  such  as  the  disregard  of  time  and  place,  as  in  its  merits,  the 
Damon  and  Pithias  is  a  commendable  experiment  in  romantic  comedy  — 
a  contribution  worthy  of  more  attention  than  historians  have  ordinarily  ac- 
corded it.  Undoubtedly  Edwardes'  "  much  admired  play"  of  Palamon 
and  Arcite,  which  the  queen  witnessed  in  hall  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford, 
1566  (and  laughed  heartily  thereat,  and  thanked  "the  author  for  his 
pains"),  was  of  the  fashion  and  vogue  of  the  drama  which  we  have  dis- 
cussed, though  it  had  not  the  abiding  influence. 

If  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  The  Supposes  (acted  i  566)  is  a  translation 
of  Ariosto's  play  of  the  same  title,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  that  it  was  the 
first  English  comedy  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  name.  It  certainly  is,  for 
many  reasons,  entitled  to  be  called  the  first  comedy  in  the  English  tongue.  It 
is  written,  not  for  children,  nor  to  educate,  but  for  grown-ups  and  solely  to  de- 
light. It  is  done  into  English,  not  for  the  vulgar,  but  for  the  more  advanced 
taste  of  the  translator's  own  Inn  of  Court  ;  it  has,  therefore,  qualities  to  capti- 
vate those  who  are  capable  of  appreciating  high  comedy.  It  is  composed,  like 
its  original,  in  straightforward,  sparkling  prose.  It  has,  also,  the  rarest  features 
of  the  fusion  drama  :  it  combines  character  and  situation,  each  depending  upon 
the  other  ;  it  combines  wit  of  intellect  with  humour  of  heart  and  fact,  intri- 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxxv 

cate  and  varied  plot  with  motive  and  steady  movement,  comic  but  not 
farcical  incident  and  language  with  complications  surprising,  serious,  and 
only  not  hopelessly  embarrassing.  It  conducts  a  romantic  intrigue  in  a  real- 
istic fashion  through  a  world  of  actualities.  With  the  blood  of  the  New 
Comedy,  the  Latin  Comedy,  the  Renaissance  in  its  veins,  it  is  far  ahead  of 
its  English  contemporaries,  if  not  of  its  time.  Without  historical  apology  or 
artistic  concessions  it  would  act  well  to-day.  Both  whimsical  and  grave,  its 
ironies  are  pro  botio  publico  ;  it  is  constructive  as  well  as  critical,  imaginative 
as  well  as  actual.  Indeed,  when  one  compares  Gascoigne's  work  with  the 
original  and  observes  the  just  liberties  that  he  has  taken,  the  Englishing  of 
sentiment  as  well  as  of  phrase,  one  is  tempted  to  say,  with  Tom  Nashe,  that 
in  comedy,  as  in  other  fields,  this  writer  first  "beat  a  path  to  that  perfection 
which  our  best  poets  have  aspired  to  since  his  departure."  He  did  not  con- 
trive the  plot  ;  but  no  dramatist  before  him  had  selected  for  his  audience, 
translated,  and  adapted  a  play  so  amusing  and  varied  in  interest,  so  graceful, 
simple,  and  idiomatic  in  its  style.  It  was  said  by  R.  T.,  in  1615,  that  Gas- 
coigne  was  one  of  those  who  first  ' '  brake  the  ice  for  our  quainter  poets  who 
now  write,  that  they  may  more  safely  swim  through  the  main  ocean  of  sweet 
poesy  "  —  a  remark  which  would  lose  much  of  its  force  if  restricted  to  the 
poet's  achievements  in  satire  alone  ;  in  the  drama  of  the  humanists  he  excelled  his 
contemporaries,  and  in  the  romantic  comedy  of  intrigue  he  anticipated  those 
who,  like  Greene  and  Shakespeare,1  adapted  the  Italian  plot  to  English  man- 
ners and  the  English  taste.  Nor  are  these  the  only  claims  of  Gascoigne  to 
consideration :  The  Supposes,  as  Professor  Herford  has  justly  remarked,  is  the 
most  Jonsonian  of  English  comedies  before  JonsOn. 


12.   Survivals  of  the  Moral  Interlude 

Though  we  must  refrain  from  description,  we  cannot  forbear  mention  of 
a  few  survivals  of  the  moral  interlude,  which,  though  themselves  rudimentary, 
were  not  without  esteem  even  in  an  age  when  the  drama,  by  combination  and 
adaptation  of  its  possibilities,  was  producing  other  results  infinitely  superior  to 
the  older  strain.  These  functionless  survivals  of  the  moral  were  the  following, 
all  controversial  :  Netve  Custome,  an  anti-papist  play,  perhaps  written  as  early 
as  1550-53  ;  Albion  Knight,  a.  political  fragment  acted  between  1560  and 
1565  ;  Kyng  Darius,  a  peculiarly  insipid  disputation,  evidently  anti-papist, 
printed  in  1565  ;  and  The  Conflict  of  Conscience,  a  doctrinal  drama  by  Na- 
thaniel Woodes,  Minister  in  Norwich,  which  presents  a  mixture  of  individual 

1  The  relation  of  The  Taming  t>f  the  Sbreiv  to  this  play  is  well  known. 


Ixxxvi  An  Historical  View 

and  even  historical  characters  with  abstractions,  stands  midway  between  the 
allegorical  interlude  and  the  drama  of  concrete  experience,  displays  a  com- 
mendable realism  in  spots,  and  is  a  more  virile  production  than  the  others  of 
this  group.  It  was  not  published  till  1581,  but  was  probably  written  soon 
after  I  563. 

Of  the  decadent  stock  of  morals  and  interludes,  there  were,  however, 
some  specimens  between  the  years  1553  and  1578  that  exhibited  an  advance 
in  quality,  if  not  in  kind.  Three  of  these,  The  Longer  thou  Livest,  All  for 
Money,  and  Tide  Taryeth  no  Man,  Mr.  Fleay  1  lumps  together  as  simple  in- 
stances of  the  survival  of  the  older  '  morality  '  after  the  introduction  of  tragedy 
and  comedy  on  the  models  of  Seneca  and  Plautus,  and  makes  the  further 
statement  that  none  of  them  teaches  us  anything  as  to  the  historical  develop- 
ment of  the  drama  in  England.  With  the  utmost  respect  for  the  knowledge 
of  this  most  helpful  historian,  I  must  say  that,  as  a  matter  of  judgment,  none 
of  these  dramas,  least  of  all,  Logger  thou  Livest,  should  be  classed  with  the 
moral  plays  of  mere  survival.  While  the  authors  of  these  and  similar  speci- 
mens did  not  produce  a  new  kind,  they  did  more  than  repeat  the  old.  They 
revived  and  enriched  the  moral  interlude  by  infusion  of  new  strains,  and  so 
produced,  by  culture,  a  most  interesting  group  of  what  may  be  called  varia- 
tions of  the  moral.  To  this  class  of  morals  belong  also  the  Triall  of  Treasure, 
Like  wil  to  Like,  and  the  Life  and  Repentaunce  of  Marie  Magdalene.  It  must 
be  said  also  that  a  few  moral  tragedies  of  the  period,  like  R.  B.'s  Apius  and 
Virginia  (about  1563,  pr.  1575),  and  Preston's  King  Cambises  (S.  R. 
1569—70),  have  some  claim  to  belong  to  this  group,  and  that  if  there  were 
space  they  should  receive  attention  for  their  vital  dramatic  quality  and  their 
development  of  the  character  of  the  Vice.  The  Hap-hazard  of  the  former, 
far  from  being,  as  Dr.  Ward  has  said,  "redundant  to  the  action,"  suggests 
the  "  conspiracies  "  which  Apius  adopts,  and  is  the  heart  of  rascality  and  fun  ; 
he  is  consequently  a  Vice  of  the  old  type  ;  but  he  is  also  the  representative 
(in  accordance  with  his  name  and  express  profession)  of  the  caprice  of  the 
individual  and  the  irony  of  fortune.  He  is  the  Vice,  efficient  for  evil,  but  in 
process  of  evolution  into  the  inclination  or  humour  of  a  somewhat  later 
period  of  dramatic  history  :  the  inclination  not  immoral  but  unmoral,  the 
artistic  impersonation  of  comic  extravagance,  in  accordance  with  which  Every 
Man  is  in  his  Vice,  and  every  Vice  is  but  a  Humour.  The  Ambidexter 
of  the  latter  tragedy  plays  "  with  both  hands  finely  "  in  the  main  action, 
and  at  the  same  time  serves  to  provoke  the  jocosity  of  those  admirably  con- 
crete ruffians,  Huf,  Ruf,  and  Snuf,  and  of  the  clown  of  the  play.  The 
Horestes,  written  by  John  Pikerynge  in  1567,  must,  although  a  tragedy,  also 

1  His/.  St.,  p.  66. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxxvii 

be  mentioned  here.1  The  Vice  under  his  dual  designation  of  Corage  and 
Revenge  is  of  the  weathervane  variety  ;  and  in  realistic  and  humorous  quali- 
ties the  play  closely  resembles  the  preceding  two.  They  were  a  noble  but 
futile  effort  to  bottle  the  juices  of  tragedy,  classical-historical  at  that,  in  the 
leathers  of  moral  interlude. 


13.   The  Movement  towards  Romantic  Comedy 

We  may  now  proceed  with  the  main  current  of  comedy.  Between  I  570 
and  I  590  the  best  plays  are  coloured  by  a  distinctively  romantic  element  ;  and 
this  is  noticeable,  not  only  in  the  productions  of  the  greater  authors,  Lyly, 
Peele,  Greene,  and  the  like,  elsewhere  discussed  in  this  volume,  but  in 
those  of  minor  writers  too  frequently  ignored.  As  I  have  already  said, 
the  romantic  in  life  appears  to  spring  from  a  desire  to  assert  one's  inde- 
pendence and  reali'/.e  the  possibilities  of  the  resulting  freedom.  "  Our  pent 
wills  fret  And  would  the  world  subdue."  But  since  the  conditions  of  life 
are  largely  opposed  to  the  complete  fulfilment  of  our  desires,  it  is  the  privilege 
and  function  of  romance,  and  of  romantic  comedy  according  to  its  kind,  to 
idealize  the  stubborn  facts  —  the  "limits  we  did  not  set"  in  favour  of  our 
ecstatic  but  still  human  urgency.  This  privilege  the  comedy  of  romance 
exercises  sometimes  with  an  eye  to  nature  and  probability,  and  sometimes 
with  some  respect  for  imaginative  possibility,  but  quite  frequently  with  no 
other  guide  than  mere  caprice.  The  subjects  of  such  comedy  may  be  briefly 
summarized  as  passion,  heroism,  and  wonder.  Of  these  the  first  is  manifest 
in  examples  of  ideal  friendship,  its  devotion  and  self-sacrifice  ;  and  a  play  of 
such  nature  we  have  already  considered  in  the  Damon  and  Pithias.  It  also 
yields  the  furnishings  of  love,  the  resulting  obstacles,  and  the  issue  ;  and  a 
play  of  this  kind  we  have  considered  in  The  Supposes,  which  is  a  domestic 
comedy  of  intrigue.  Of  heroism  the  possibilities  are  suggested  by  the  words 
travel,  adventure,  chivalry,  war,  conquest  ;  those  of  wonder  are  as  various 
as  the  chances  of  birth,  wealth  and  fortune,  pomp  and  power,  myth  and 
fable  :  they  are  fostered  by  that  which  is  remote,  preternatural,  supernatural. 

To  the  romance  of  wonder,  saints'  plays,  legends,  and  biblical  stories  had 
purveyed  from  early  times.  From  1570  on  the  narrative  of  chivalry  and  ad- 
venture, of  which  shadowy  lineaments  had  already  appeared  in  one  or  two 
miracle  plays  and  in  the  interludes  of  Wit  and  Science,  began  to  gather  to 
itself  kindred  elements  of  romantic  interest,  and  to  occupy  the  stage  with 
such  plays  as  Common  Conditions,  written  perhaps  between  1572  and  1576, 

1  Brit.  Mus.  c.  34,  g;   Collier's  Illmtr.   0.  Engl.  Lit.,  II.  ^  ;  Brandl's  Quellen. 


Ixxxviii  An  Historical  View 

and  Sir  Clyomon  and  Sir  Clamydes,  written  perhaps  as  early,  —  dramas  of  love, 
fable,  and  adventure,  absolutely  free  from  didactic  purpose.  At  the  same 
lime  still  another  variety  of  romantic  comedy,  unhampered  by  the  trammels 
of  instructive  intent,  but  dealing  essentially  in  domestic  intrigue,  kept  alive  the 
method  of  The  Supposes.  This  variety  was  represented  by  The  Bugbears, 
between  1561  and  1584,  and  The  Two  Italian  Gentlemen  (S.  R.  1584), 
which,  based  upon  Italian  models,  availed  themselves  on  the  one  hand  of  a 
burlesque  parody  of  the  magical,  and  on  the  other  of  genuine  English  mirth. 
The  latter  indeed  added  something  of  the  '  humours  '  element  soon  to  be 
exploited  by  Porter,  Chapman,  and  Jonson.  Beside  these  dramas,  there 
sprang  into  notice  a  certain  half-moral,  half-romantic  kind  of  play  which, 
availing  itself  of  the  mould  of  the  interlude,  fused  therein  the  materials  of  the 
chivalrous,  the  magical,  and  the  passionate,  and  produced  certain  anomalous 
comedies  of  great  popularity  between  the  year  1580  and  the  end  of  the 
century.  The  best  of  these  "pleasant  and  stately  morals"  are  :  The  Rare 
Triumphs  of  Love  and  Fortune,  The  Three  Ladies  of  London,  The  Three 
Lordes  and  Three  Ladies  of  London. 

While  Collier  thinks  that,  in  point  of  positive  dramatic  interest,  the  Rare 
Triumphs  of  Love  and  Fortune  requires  but  brief  notice,  Dr.  Ward  holds  that 
the  beginnings  of  romantic  comedy  were  foreshadowed  by  the  play.1  It  is, 
in  fact,  both  dramatically  and  historically,  one  of  the  most  important  produc- 
tions of  its  date.  It  was  printed  in  1589,  but  played,  perhaps,  as  early  as 
1582.  Mr.  Fleay  has  assigned  it  to  Kyd,  but  I  do  not  see  sufficient  reason 
for  the  attribution  ;  if  we  must  find  an  author  for  it,  Robert  Wilson's  claims 
might  be  urged.  The  Rare  Triumphs  affords  an  excellent  instance  of  the 
fusion  of  moral  and  romance.  In  the  Induction,  Love  and  Fortune  dispute 
concerning  their  respective  influence  in  the  affairs  of  mankind.  By  mutual 
agreement  the  debat  seeks  its  solution  in  a  practical  demonstration  of  the 
issues  involved.  And  so  we  find  our  intellectual  as  well  as  emotional  inter- 
est enlisted  in  the  chances  of  an  Italian  story  of  love,  adventure,  and  magic. 
Within  a  moral  interlude  of  classical  and  mythological  origin  we  discover  a 
romantic  comedy.  The  influence  of  the  supernatural  not  merely  envelops, 
but  permeates  the  whole  ;  the  Acts  present  the  destinies  of  the  mortals  of  the 
inner  play,  the  inter-acts  the  continued  intervention  of  the  immortals  of  the 
outer.  The  spectacular  effect  is,  moreove-,  heightened  by  the  introduction  of 
dumb  shows,  after  the  fashion  of  the  masque.  In  dramatic  interest  proper 
few  romantic  fables  of  1582  can  compare  with  the  inner  story  :  the  love  of 
Hermione  for  Fidelia,  the  duel  between  Hermione  and  Fidelia's  brother,  the 
exile  of  the  lover  and  his  retirement  to  the  cave  of  his  unknown  father,  the 

1  Collier,  E.  Dram.  Po.,  II.  432;   and  Ward,  Hist.  E.  Dr.  Lit.,  1.  264. 


of  English  Comedy  Ixxxix 

hermit  Bomelio  ;  Bomelio's  attempt  to  right  matters  by  magic,  the  destruction 
of  his  necromantic  books,  his  madness,  his  recovery,  and  the  resolution  of 
difficulties  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  heroine.  Such  a  fable  is  any- 
thing but  silly  and  meagre,  as  Collier  would  have  it,  especially  when  we 
consider  its  conjunction  with  the  humorous  and  vivid.  In  the  outer  play  the 
clown  is  Vulcan,  at  whose  call  Jupiter  mediates,  "  like  an  honest  man  in 
the  parish,"  between  the  disputatious  goddesses.  In  the  inner  play  Pcnulo 
the  parasite  and  Lentulo  the  clown,  though  neither  of  them  a  Vice,  supply  the 
comic  delectations  of  the  role.  The  disguise  of  Bomelio  as  physician,  his 
dialect,  his  misfortune  and  raving,  are  excellently  contrived  and  conducted. 
In  at  least  half  a  dozen  particulars  one  may  detect  aesthetic  possibilities  later  to 
be  matured  in  more  than  one  Shakespearian  play  :  foreshadowings  of  plot  and 
principal  actors,  as  in  The  Tempest ;  foreshadowings  of  minor  characters  like 
Dr.  Caius,  or  like  the  Francis  of  /  Hffiry  11 '.  The  play  is,  in  brief,  refresh- 
ing ;  the  humour,  substantial  and  English  ;  the  language,  conversational,  dra- 
matic, sometimes  in  prose  and  then  excellent.  The  versification,  however, 
is  of  that  stiffer  quality  which  warrants  Mr.  Fleay's  conjecture  of  1582,  or 
thereabout,  as  the  date  of  composition. 

The  attempt  to  enliven  the  "old  moral"  by  an  infusion  of  passion  and 
intrigue,  and  to  parade  it  in  the  trappings  of  romance,  across  the  background  of 
contemporary  English  life  and  manners,  is  what  distinguishes  Robert  Wilson's 
"right  excellent  and  famous  Comoedy  called  the  Three  Ladies  of  London," 
printed  1584,  and  its  sequel,  The  Pleasant  and  Stately  Moral!  of  the  Three 
Lordes  and  Three  Ladies  of  London,  registered  in  1588.  Of  these  plays, 
the  latter  trades  in  pomp  and  chivalry  ;  the  earlier  in  something  like  the 
motives  of  romantic  interest.  "The  acuteness  and  political  subtlety  evinced 
in  several  of  the  scenes  of  the  Three  Ladies  "  have  been  justly  commended  by 
Collier,  who  points  with  careful  attention  also  to  "  the  severity  of  the  author's 
satirical  touch,  his  amusing  illustrations  of  manners,  his  exposure  of  the  tricks 
of  foreign  merchants,  and  the  humour  and  drollery  which  he  has  thrown 
into  his  principal  comic  personage."  This  is  Simplicity,  the  fool  or  clown, 
droll,  indifferent,  honest,  and  by  no  means  so  simple  as  he  appears  :  a 
descendant  of  the  historical  Will  Summer,  a  forerunner  of  the  Dogberrys  and 
Malaprops,  and  the  elder  brother  of  an  Honesty  of  another  play,  A  Knack  to 
Know  a  Knave,  in  which  the  same  author  probably  had  a  hand.  Standing 
over  against  three  belated  specimens  of  the  Vice,  Simplicity  unites  the  shrewd- 
ness, manners,  and  humour  of  that  personage  —  but  in  superior  quality  —  with 
the  prudence,  the  penetration,  and  the  conception  of  honour  peculiar  to  the 
professional  jester.  He  also  plays  a  vital  part  in  the  main  action,  and  is  worthy 
to  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  clowns,  if  not  the  best,  in  the  history  of  the 


xc  An  Historical  View 

moral  interlude.  His  forthright  utterances  in  the  Three  Ladles  and  his  easy 
and  witty  prose  in  the  sequel  mark  him  for  a  model  likely  to  have  influenced 
the  younger  dramatists  of  the  day.  The  minor  plot-interest  of  the  honest 
Jew,  Gerontus,  trhe  rascally  Christian,  Mercatore,  and  the  Judge,  is  signifi- 
cant, not  only  as  the  reverse  of  the  conception  dramatized  in  the  Jew  of 
Malta  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  but  as,  with  one  exception,  the  earliest 
elaboration  of  the  motif  that  was  to  become  prominent  in  the  drama  of  the 
next  few  years.  Qualities  romantic  and  real  invest  the  career  ot  the  three 
Ladies  ;  and  the  characterization  of  the  numerous  minor  personages  is  both 
subtle  and  suitable  to  their  different  classes  and  interests. 

Although  the  Three  Lordes  and  Ladies,  one  of  the  earliest  sequels  in  the 
history  of  English  drama,  is  "more  of  a  moral"  than  its  predecessor  and 
makes  no  improvement  in  plot-structure,  it  is  of  importance  fully  equal.  For 
what  it  lacks  in  passion  and  romance  is  more  than  counterbalanced  by  tech- 
nical qualities  —  the  blank  verse,  the  fluent  prose,  the  wit  of  Simplicity  and 
the  pages,  the  scenic  display,  the  variety  of  incidents,  and  the  portrayal  of 
manners.  If  we  consider  the  definite  transition  from  abstractions  to  social 
and  individual  traits  of  character  in  this  play  and  the  preceding,  —  the  multi- 
fold impersonation  of  worldly  wisdom,  fraud,  and  shoddy,  one  might  say 
the  resolution  of  the  role  of  Vice  into  its  component  specialties  ;  the  corre- 
sponding offset  of  all  these  by  ensamples  of  virtuous  living,  but  still  human  ; 
and  the  attendant  troupe  of  more  obvious  'humours,'  Simplicity  and  the 
pages,  Painful  Penury,  Diligence,  and  the  rest, — it  will  be  evident  that 
these  plays  of  Robert  Wilson  are  the  merging  of  moral  interlude  in  romantic 
and  social  comedy.  On  this  account  I  cannot  agree  with  Dr.  Ward,1  who 
says  that  in  construction  and  conception  they  mark  no  advance  whatever  upon 
the  older  moralities.  I  think  they  mark  a  significant  advance.  In  them  the 
moral  has  arrived  at  a  consciousness  of  the  demands  ot  art  ;  and,  attempting 
to  fulfil  its  possibilities,  it  acquires  body,  spirit,  and  bouquet,  even  though, 
in  the  moment  of  fermentation,  it  bursts  the  bottle.  Still  we  must  re- 
member that  we  have  now  reached  a  date,  1588—90,  by  which  much  of 
the  best  work  of  Lyly,  Marlowe,  Peele,  and  Greene  had  already  been  pro- 
duced, and  we  must,  therefore,  not  attribute  to  Wilson  an  importance  greater 
than  that  of  an  industrious  and  inventive  contemporary,  hospitable  to  ideas, 
but  essentially  conservative  in  practice.  He  is  at  once  "  father  of  interludes," 
as  interludes  then  were  regarded,  and  an  intermediary  between  the  interlude 
of  moral  abstractions  and  the  comedy  of  humours.  He  appears,  also,  to  have 
played  so  lively  a  part  in  the  dramatic  history  of  his  day  that  Mr.  Fleay  is 
justified  in  calling  this  period  by  his  name  ;  and,  therefore,  a  few  further 

1  Hi n.  E.  Dr.  Lit.,  I.  141. 


of  English  Comedy  xci 

words  concerning    him  and  other  plays    which    he    seems    to    have   written 
might  well  be  said  here,  but  we  must  reserve  them  tor  another  occasion. 

14.   Conclusion 

With  but  one  or  two  exceptions  the  plays  which  we  have  so  far  passed  in 
review  fail  in  some  respect  or  other  of  the  plot  that  makes  a  comedy.  A  plot 
that  is  argumentative,  that  is  a  ratiocination  or  cxernplum  conducted  by  ab- 
stractions, is  not  sufficient  to  constitute  comedy,  though  it  may  contribute  to 
its  development  a  unity  of  interest,  a  spiritual  sequence  ;  nor  are  sporadic 
situations  and  incidents  sufficient,  though  humorously  conceived  and  exe- 
cuted ;  nor  glimpses  of  types,  characters  or  manners,  nor  hints  of  passion,  nor 
satiric  speeches  and  dialogues,  though  artistically  dramati/ed,  true,  appro- 
priate, and  wittv.  None  of  these  constitutes  comedy.  Comedy  demands 
action  vitalized  by  a  plot  that  is  capable  of  revealing  the  social  significance  of 
the  individual  :  an  action  of  sufficient  scope  and  reality  to  display  the  spirit  of 
society  in  individual  types  and  manners,  or  in  character  and  sentiment  ;  a 
plot  sufficiently  urgent  to  interest  us,  not  only  in  the  phenomena,  in  the  con- 
comitants, of  every  deed,  but  in  its  motive  and  inherent  passion.  The  comedy 
of  external  life  may  present,  by  means  of  typical  individuals  and  conventional 
manners,  a  reflex  of  that  which  is  actual,  or  a  criticism  of  it  ;  and  such  a 
play  will  be  realistic  or  satirical.  The  comedy  of  the  inner  life,  on  the 
other  hand,  since  it  reveals  the  characteristics  of  humanity  in  the  heat  and 
moment  of  passion,  may  present  a  vision  of  the  ideal  made  concrete  ;  it  is 
therefore  at  once  interpretative,  constructive,  and  romantic.  These  two  kinds* 
of  comedy  are  alike  in  that  they  display  the  triumph  of  freedom  when 
regulated  by  common  sense,  the  adjustment  of  the  individual  to  society.  But 
as  they  vary  in  function  and  result,  so  these  kinds  of  comedy  differ  in  the 
quality  of  action  which  each  may  present.  The  play  of  convention  and  man- 
ners can  use  only  the  externals  of  action,  actions  that  neither  strike  deep  nor 
spring  from  the  depths,  for  such  a  play  aims  to  reproduce  appearances  or 
merely  to  re-create  them  —  to  criticise  and  correct  rather  than  construct. 
The  play  of  character  and  passion,  not  the  so-called  realistic,  but  idealistic, 
selects  for  presentation  actions  whose  springs  are  in  the  inner  life  ;  and  that  is 
because  it  would  present  men  and  women  as  they  should  be, — individuals 
widening  the  social,  pressing  toward  the  ideal,  not  by  overstepping  that 
which  is  conventional,  but  by  informing  it  with  new  meaning  and  pushing 
back  its  limits.  Comedy,  therefore,  is  in  the  plot,  and  the  plot  must  pro- 
ceed from  the  wisdom  essential  to  a  comic  view  of  life  :  acceptance  of  the 
social  environment  as  it  appears  to  be,  because  one  believes  in  society  as  it 


xcii      Historical  View  of  English  Comedy 

should  be.  The  dramatist,  his  plot  and  his  characters,  are  the  exponents  of 
common  sense  and  freedom,  of  the  light  of  life  as  it  is  with  the  sweetness  of 
life  as  it  may  be.  Common  sense,  however,  may  become  prosaic,  or  liberty 
licentious  ;  and  it  is  in  preventing  such  extremes  that  wit  and  humour  per- 
form their  function.  Neither  of  these  can  alone  make  a  comedy,  but  one  of 
them  may  sometimes  save  it.  Both  should  certainly  characterize  it.  But  for 
the  former,  the  drama  of  appearances  might  be  caricature,  abuse,  horse-play, 
or  homily  ;  but  for  the  latter,  romantic  comedy  would  be  bathos.  No 
amount  of  wit,  however,  could  save  a  play  that  did  not  possess  a  significant 
sequence  of  material  and  event.  Though  the  booths  of  Bartholomew  Fair 
agitate  the  diaphragm,  they  do  not  constitute  comedy.  Without  plot  the 
lunges  of  wit  lack  point  ;  and  as  for  the  plotless  play  of  passion,  it  ends  in 
Bedlam,  whence  all  the  humour  in  the  world  cannot  redeem  it. 

It  was  a  step  forward  when  allegory  made  way  for  concrete  characters 
and  manners,  and  the  motives  born  of  social  intercourse  ;  a  further  step  when 
the  dramatist  ceased  instructing  and  sought  to  amuse.  But  the  final  step 
implied  the  still  rarer  ability  to  create  something  integral  and  critical  in  one, 
something  that  should  act  what  life  means,  and  so  unconsciously  demonstrate 
that  it  is  purposive,  and  more  hopeful  and  amusing  than  we  thought.  Natu- 
rally enough,  our  earlier  comic  plots,  when  they  were  escaping  from  the  sym- 
bolic, lacked  sometimes  in  significance,  and  sometimes  in  sequence.  The 
fables  of  Roister  Doister  and  Gammer  Gurton  mark  an  advance  in  techni- 
cal construction ;  but  they  do  not  escape  the  farcical,  for  their  subjects  are 
trivial.  There  were  likewise  many  experiments  to  be  made  in  the  materials  of 
•intrigue  and  passion  before  Damon  and  Pithias  and  The  Supposes  could  fulfil, 
even  in  part,  the  requirements  of  significant  romance.  And  when,  at  last, 
the  play  with  a  plot  had  come  to  its  own,  it  was  long  before  it  attained 
wisdom  to  suffuse  the  appearances  of  life  with  their  illuminating  characteristic, 
and  imagination  to  colour  the  course  of  characteristic  events. 


John   Heywood 


THE    PLAY    OF   THE    WETHER 

and 

A    MERY    PLAY    BETWENE 
JOHAN  JOHAN,  THE  HUSBANDE, 
TYB,    HIS    WIFE,  fcfc. 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and  Notes 
fa  Alfred  II'.  Pollard,  M.A., 
St.  John's  College,  Oxford 


CRITICAL    ESSAY 

Life. — The  first  authentic  record  of  John  Heywood  is  one  of  6  January, 
1515,  in  Henry  VIII. 's  Book  of  Payments,  which  shows  him  to  have  then 
been  one  of  the  King's  singing  men,  in  receipt  of  a  daily  wage  of  eightpence. 
According  to  Bale,  who  must  have  known  him,  he  was  "  civis  Londinensis," 
the  story  that  he  was  born  at  North  Mimms,  Hertfordshire,  having  apparently 
arisen  from  his  possession  of  land  in  that  neighbourhood.  Tradition  has 
sent  him  to  Broadgates  Hall,  now  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  and  there  is 
nothing  improbable  in  this.  In  February,  1521,  Heywood  was  granted  by  the 
King  an  annuity  often  marks,  and  in  1526,  a  quarterly  payment  of  the  same 
sum  was  made  him  as  a  "  player  of  the  virginals."  He  appears  to  have  been 
specially  attached  to  the  retinue  of  the  Princess  Mary,  a  payment  being  made 
in  January,  I  537,  to  his  servant  for  bringing  her  "  regalles  "  (or  hand-organ) 
from  London  to  Greenwich,  and  Heywood  himself  in  March,  1538,  receiv- 
ing forty  shillings  for  "  pleying  an  interlude  with  his  children  "  before  her. 
At  Mary's  coronation  Heywood  made  her  a  Latin  speech  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard,  and  in  November,  15^8,  the  Queen  granted  him  some  leases  in 
Yorkshire.  On  the  accession  of  Elizabeth,  Heywood,  though  he  had  steered 
through  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  with  safety,  fled  to  Malines,  and  Professor 
Ward  (in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography)  identifies  him  with  the  John 
Heywood  who  in  1575  wrote  from  Malines,  "  where  I  have  been  despoiled 
by  Spanish  and  German  soldier,"  thanking  Burghley  for  ordering  the  pay- 
ment to  him  of  some  arrears  on  lands  at  Romney,  and  speaking  of  himself  as 
an  old  man  of  seventy-eight,  which  would  give  1497  as  his  birth-year.  He 
is  mentioned  in  a  list  of  refugees  in  I  577,  but  by  I  587  is  spoken  of  as  "  dead 
and  gone."  Earlier  biographers,  it  should  be  noted,  following  Anthony  a 
Wood,  have  placed  his  death  in  1565.  Besides  his  plays  Heywood  wrote 
a  Dialogue  Contemning  the  Number  of  the  Effectual!  Prouerbes  in  the  Eiig- 
lisbe  Tonge,  Six  Hundred  Epigrams,  and  a  tedious  allegory  The  Spider  ana 
the  Flie,  printed,  with  a  woodcut  of  the  author,  in  1556. 

Heywood's  Place  in  English  Comedy.  —  -  The  early  history  of 
English  comedy  is  a  record  of  successive  efforts  and  experiments 
apparently  leading  to  no  result.  The  comic  scenes  in  the  miracle 
plays  culminate  in  the  really  masterly  sheep-stealing  plot  of  the 
Secunda  Pastorum  in  the  Towneley  Cycle-,  but  the  step  which  seems 

3 


John   Heywood 


to  us  so  obvious,  the  separation  of  the  Pastoral  Comedy  from  its 
religious  surroundings,  was  never  taken,  and  the  Secunda  Pastorum 
stands  by  itself,  a  solitary  masterpiece.  In  the  earlier  moralities 
there  are  flashes  of  humour  as  in  the  miracle  plays  ;  in  the  later 
moralities  we  find  scenes  in  which  the  effort  to  paint  the  riotous 
course  of  Youth,  though  not  very  amusing  to  modern  readers,  is 
sufficiently  faithful  to  bring  us  within  sight  of  a  possible  comedy 
of  manners.  But  the  morality-writer  was  far  from  entertaining 
any  conception  of  comedy  as  an  end  in  itself.  His  aim  remained 
to  the  last  purely  didactic.  It  did  not,  indeed,  occur  to  him,  as  it 
occurred  to  didactic  writers  of  a  later  period,  to  represent  dissipa- 
tion as  so  unattractive  as  to  make  it  miraculous  that  it  should 
attract.  He  would  show  it  as  bitter  of  digestion,  but  neither  play- 
wright nor  audience  were  concerned  to  deny  that  it  was  pleasant  in 
the  mouth,  and  it  is  improbable  that  readiness  to  acquiesce  in  the 
sober  moral  of  a  play  diminished  in  the  least  the  applause  with  which, 
we  may  be  sure,  any  approach  to  gayety  in  the  tavern  scenes  wrould 
be  attended.  After  all,  though  we  may  sometimes  be  inclined  to 
doubt  it,  audiences  both  at  miracle  plays  and  moralities  were  human. 
To  the  very  real  strain  imposed  on'  their  emotions  in  the  miracle 
plays  they  needed  what  seem  to  us  these  incongruous  interludes 
of  humour  by  way  of  dramatic  relief,  and  in  the  moralities  it  is 
difficult  not  to  believe  that  the  humour  supplied  the  gilding  without 
which  the  didactic  pill,  at  a  much  earlier  date,  must  have  been  found 
nauseating.  It  remains,  however,  certain  that  alike  in  the  miracle] 
iplays,  the  moralities,  and  the  moral  interludes  such  humour  as  can  be 
found  is  merely  incidental,  and  this  is  the  justification  for  assigning 
to  John  Heywood  the  honourable  position  which  he  occupies  in  this, 
collection  of  English  comedies.  As  far  as  we  know,  he  was  the 
first  English  dramatist  to  understand  that  a  play  might  be  con- 
structed with  no  other  objects  than  satire  and  amusement,  and  if 
such  epithets  were  not  fortunately  a  little  discredited,  we  might 
dub  him  on  this  score  the  "Father"  of  English  comedy.  Pa- 
ternity, however,  cannot  be  predicated  without  some  evidence  of 
offspring,  and  it  would  be  extremely  difficult,  I  think,  to  show  that 
Heywood  exercised  sufficient  influence  on  any  subsequent  dramatist 
to  be  reckoned  as  his  literary  father.  The  anonymous  author  of  that 


"John    Hey -wood 


amusing  childien's  play,  Thersites,  was  indeed  a  kindred  spirit,  hut 
there  is  at  least  a  possibility  that  this  play  should  he  credited  to  Hey- 
wood  himself,  and  on  the  subsequent  development  of  comedy  his 
influence  was  certainly  of  the  smallest.  But  to  have  shown  that 
comedy  was  entitled  to  a  separate  existence,  apart  from  didactics, 
was  no  small  achievement,  and  to  the  credit  of  this  demonstration 
Hey  wood  is  entitled. 

In  guessing  how  Heywood  came  to  make  this  discovery  it  seems 
not  unreasonable  to  lay  some  stress  on  the  fact  that,  according  to  a 
tradition  which  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  he  was  a  friend  of  Sir 
Thomas  More,  while  we  know  that  four  of  his  plays  were  printed 
by  William  Rastcll,  the  son  of  A/lore's  brother-in-law,  John  Rastell. 
More's  interest  in  the  drama  is  attested  by  the  story  of  his  stepping, 
on  more  than  one  occasion,  among  the  players,  when  they  were  per- 
forming before  Cardinal  Morton,  and  taking  an  improvised  share  in 
the  dialogue.  In  the  play  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  written  towards  the 
close  of  the  century,  this  improvisation  is  transferred  to  an  interlude 
performed  during  an  entertainment  at  More's  own  house,  and  the 
introduction  of  this  interlude  into  the  piece,  and  the  ready  welcome 
which  the  Chancellor  is  represented  as  giving  the  players,  certainly 
argue  a  tradition  of  a  keen  interest  in  the  drama  on  his  part.  John 
Rastell,  again,  has  been  credited  with  the  authorship  of  at  least  one 
of  the  interludes  which  he  printed,  and  quite  recently  some  inter- 
esting documents  have  been  discovered,  which  show  him  organizing 
a  performance  for  which  a  wooden  stage  was  erected  in  his  own 
garden  at  Finsbury,  setting  Mrs.  Rastell  to  help  a  tailor  to  make 
some  very  gorgeous  dresses,  and  apparently  engaging  as  players  the 
craftsmen  (a  certain  George  Birch,  currier,  and  his  friends),  who 
up  to  this  date  were  still  the  customary  performers,  as  distinct  from 
a  separate  class  of  trained  actors.  Rastell,  at  this  time,  and  More, 
throughout  his  life,  held  those  views  as  to  church-policy  to  which 
we  know  that  Hevwood  himself  consistently  clung.  The  attitude  of 
firm  belief,  with  an  absolute  readiness  to  satirize  abuses,  which  we 
find  in  Heywood's  plays,  was  exactly  characteristic  of  More,  and  it 
does  not  seem  fanciful  to  believe  that  it  was  partly  to  the  author  of 
the  Utopia,  and  to  the  circle  of  which  he  was  the  centre,  that  Hey- 
wood owed  his  dramatic  development. 


Heywood 


Plays  assigned  to  him :  Authorship,  Dramatic  Development,  Literary 
Estimate.  —  There  is  the  more  reason  for  insisting  on  Heywood's 
place  as  one  or"  a  little  circle,  interested  in  playwriting  and  play- 
acting, in  that  the  evidence  for  his  authorship  of  two  of  the  best  of 
the  six  interludes  commonly  assigned  to  him  is  extremely  vague. 
It  is,  indeed,  very  unfortunate  that  the  six  plays  divide  themselves 
into  a  group  of  four  and  a  group  of  two,  and  that  whereas  the  four 
plays  of  the  first  group  are  all  positively  assigned  to  him  in  one  case 
in  a  contemporary  manuscript,  said  to  be  in  his  own  writing,  in  the 
others  in  contemporary  printed  editions,  the  two  plays  of  the  second 
group  were  both  published  anonymously,  although,  like  The  Play  of 
Love  and  The  Play  of  the  Wether,  they  were  issued  by  William  Ras- 
tell,  and  appeared  within  a  few  months  of  these  plays  to  which  Hey- 
wood's name  is  duly  attached.  In  the  case  of  publications  of  our 
own  day  we  should  certainly  be  justified  in  thinking  that  the  asser- 
tion of  his  authorship  in  two  cases  and  the  failure  to  assert  it  in  two 
others  were  intentional  and  significant.  But  in  the  first  half  of  the 

O 

sixteenth  century  there  was  still  much  carelessness  in  these  matters, 
while  the  difference  is  fairly  well  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  in 
The  Plav  of  Love  and  Play  of  the  Wether  Rastell  printed  the  title  and 
dramatis  persona;  on  a  separate  leaf,  whereas  in  The  Pardoner  and  the 
Frere  and  'Johan  "Johan  there  is  only  a  head  title.  However  this  may 
be,  we  are  bound  in  the  first  instance  to  consider  by  themselves  the 
four  plays  of  which  Heywood's  authorship  is  beyond  dispute. 

In  approaching  these  four  plays  we  must  prepare  ourselves  to 
judge  them  relatively  to  the  other  work  of  the  very  dull  period  of 
English  literature  at  which  they  were  written.  To  make  this  claim 
for  them  is  to  admit  that  they  are  imperfect,  important  historically 
rather  than  absolutely  for  their  own  worth;  but  the  admission  is 
one  which  no  sane  critic  can  avoid,  and  it  is  here  made  with  alacrity. 
What  it  gains  for  Heywood  is  the  recognition  that  two  strongly 
marked  features  of  these  plays,  one  of  which  is  now  likely  to  repel, 
..nd  the  other  to  weary,  most  modern  readers,  in  his  own  day  helped 
to  make  them  amusing.  The  repellent  feature  is,  of  course,  that 
humour  of  filth  which,  quite  as  much  as  his  sexual  indecencies, 
makes  some  passages  both  in  the  Four  PP.  and  The  Play  of  the 
tl  i-ther  disgusting  even  to  readers  not  consciously  squeamish.  The 


Jo/in   Hcywood 


epithet  4  beastly '  which  Pope  applied  to  Skelton  is  certainly  on  this 
score  no  less  appropriate  to  Heywood,  but  it  needs  no  wide  acquain- 
tance with  the  popular  literature  of  his  day  to  learn  that  this  wretched 
stuff  was  found  amusing  for  its  own  sake.  To  suppress  this  fact, 
either  by  expurgating  or  by  deliberately  choosing  a  less  typical  play 
for  the  sake  of  its  accidental  decency,  would  be  to  falsify  evidence, 
and  any  such  falsification  would  be  grossly  unjust  to  Heywood's 
successors.  It  is  only  by  realizing  how  low  was  the  conception  of 
humour  in  the  sixteenth  century  that  we  can  explain  the  existence 
in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  himself  of  passages  which  would  other- 
wise be  wholly  amazing. 

For  the  other  feature  in  Heywood's  plays  which  now  excites 
more  weariness  than  interest  there  is  no  need  to  apologize;  we 
may  even  confess  that  our  failure  to  relish  it  is  due  to  our  own 
weakness.  In  Heywood's  days  one  of  the  chief  aims  of  education 
was  skill  in  argument.  Men  disputed  their  way  to  academical 
degrees,  and  the  quickest  path  to  reputation  was  the  successful 
maintenance  against  all  comers  of  some  hazardous  proposition. 
Instead  of  introducing  this  siege-train  of  argument  into  their  plays, 
modern  dramatists  have  preferred  the  lighter  weapons  of  verbal 
pleasantry  and  repartee  which  make  what  is  called  "  pointed  dia- 
logue." A  request  from  one  of  the  dramatis  persons  to  another 
u  in  this  cause  to  shewe  cause  reasonable.  .  .  .  Hearyng  and 
aunswerynge  me  pacyently  "  would  assuredly  empty  any  theatre  of 
our  own  day.  But  the  audience  who  listened  to  it  in  Heywood's 
Play  of  Love  no  doubt  settled  themselves  in  their  places  with  an 
anticipation  of  enjoyment.  And  we  may  fairly  grant  that  our 
author  is  not  wholly  unsuccessful  in  vivacious  argument.  For  a 
lady  to  compare  the  suit  of  an  unwelcome  lover  to  an  invitation 
"to  graunte  hym  my  good  wyll  to  stryke  of[f]  my  hed,"  pleasingly 
illustrates  the  unreasonableness  of  too  great  pertinacity  on  the  part 
of  the  rejected.  The  objection  "  Howe  many  have  ye  known 
hang  willingly"  shatters  at  a  blow  the  seemingly  sound  plea  that 
as  the  convict  suffers  more  than  his  hangman,  so  the  rejected  lover 
is  more  to  be  pitied  than  the  most  tender-hearted  lady  who  finds 
herself  obliged  to  refuse  him.  The  ups  and  downs  of  the  argument 
are  often  conducted  with  ingenuity,  and  an  audience  to  whom  argu- 


8  y 0/171   Heywood 

ment  was  amusing  for  its  own  sake  no  doubt  applauded  every  point. 
Two  of  Heywood's  plays  depend  almost  entirely  on  their  logical 
attractions,  —  the  interlude,  left  imprinted  till  its  issue  by  the  Percy 
Societv  in  1846,  to  which  has  been  given  as  title  The  Dialogue  of 
ll'it  and  Folly,  and  Tht-  Play  of  Love  twice  printed  by  Rastell  (1533 
and  1534)  and  once  bv  Waley.  The  former  is  purely  argumenta- 
tive, discussing  the  question  as  to  whether  the  fool  or  the  sage  has 
the  pleasanter  life.  The  Play  of  Low,  on  the  other  hand,  may  be 
said  to  have  two  episodes,  the  first  a  monologue  of  some  three  hun- 
dred lines  in  which  the  Vice,  "Neither  Loving  nor  Loved,"  narrates 
his  ill-success  in  an  endeavour  to  conquer  the  heart  of  a  lady  with- 
out losing  his  own,  the  second  his  appearance  with  a  bucketful  of 
squibs  and  a  false  story  of  a  fire  at  the  house  of  the  happy  lover's 
mistress.  The  argument  in  this  play  is  double,  "  Loving  not 
Loved"  and  "Loved  not  Loving"  contending  as  to  which  is  the 
more  miserable,  and  "  Both  Loved  and  Loving  "  and  "  Neither  Lov- 
ing nor  Loved  "  as  to  which  is  the  happier.  As  each  pair  appoints 
the  other  as  joint  arbitrators,  it  is  perhaps  more  surprising  that  any 
conclusion  was  reached,  than  that  it  should  be  the  rather  tame  one 
that  the  pains  of  the  first  pair  and  the  happiness  of  the  second  were 
in  each  case  exactlv  equal. 

In  connection  with  these  two  plays  we  ought  perhaps  to  allude  to 
another,  very  similar  in  its  form,  the  dialogue  of  Gentvlnes  and  No- 
hylyte,1  of  which  the  authorship  has  often  been  attributed  to  Heywood. 
This  play  is  certainly  printed  in  John  Rastell's  types,  but  in  place 
of  a  colophon  it  has  the  words  "  Johannes  Rastell  fieri  fecit,"  and  as 
Rastell  would  probably  have  written  "imprimi  fecit"  if  he  had  been 
alluding  merely  to  its  printing,  we  can  hardly  doubt  that  the  word 
"  fieri  "  refers  to  performance,  if  not  to  composition.  With  the 
evidence  we  now  have  that  John  Rastell  had  plays  acted  in  his  own 
garden,  "fieri  fecit"  seems  exactly  translatable  by  "caused  to  be 
produced,"  and  as  Mrs.  Rastell  helped  the  tailor  to  make  the  dresses, 
so  probablv  the  lawyer-printer  helped  to  write  the  play.  Its  two 

1  The  full  title  of  this  play  is  rather  injtnu'tivc  :  -  "  Of  (Jentylnes  &  Noliylyte  :  a  dyaloge 
betwcn  the  marchaunt,  the  knyght  &  the  plowman  ily>putyng  who  is  a  verey  gentylman  & 
who  is  a  noble  man  anil  how  men  shuld  come  to  am  toryfe,  compiled  in  maner  of  an  cnterludc 
with  divers  toys  &  gestis  addyd  therto  to  make  mery  pastyme  and  disport." 


Heywood 


parts  are  each  diversified  by  the  Plowman  beating  Knight  and  Mer- 
chant (verberat  eos  is  the  stage-direction),  but  otherwise  it  is  all  sheer 
argument,  which  in  the  end  a  philosopher  is  introduced  to  sum  up. 
The  tone  of  the  interlude  is  singularly  democratic,  the  Plowman 
throughout  having  the  best  of  it,  and,  despite  a  natural  similarity  be- 
tween some  of  the  speeches  with  those  of  the  "Gentylman  "  and  the 
"  Marchaunt  "  in  the  Play  of  the  Wether,  there  seems  no  reason  for 
connecting  with  it  the  name  of  Heywood,  who,  for  the  better  part  of 
his  life,  was  in  the  service  of  the  Court. 

In  "  The  playe  called  the  four  e  PP. :  a  newe  and  a  very  mery  enter- 
lude  of  a  palmer,  a  pardoner,  a  potycary,  a  pedler,"  the  advance  in 
dramatic  form  as  compared  with  The  Play  of  Love  is  very  slight, 
though  the  play  is  much  more  vivid  and  amusing.  The  Palmer 
begins  it  with  an  account  of  his  wanderings,  and  then  the  other  three 
characters  come  on  the  stage,  each  catching  up  the  words  of  the  last 
speaker,  and  vaunting  his  own  profession.  The  argument  between 
Palmer,  Pardoner,  and  Pothecary  waxes  hot,  and  at  last  the  Pedler 
suggests  that  as  lying  is  the  one  matter  in  which  they  are  all  skilled, 
their  order  of  merit  can  best  be  determined  by  a  contest  in  this  art, 
and  offers  himself  as  the  judge.  At  first  the  competitors  lie  vaguely. 
Then  it  is  resolved  that  the  lie  must  take  the  form  of  a  tale,  and  the 
Pothecary  tells  a  long  story  of  the  effect  of  one  of  his  medicines ; 
then  the  Pardoner  a  much  longer  one  of  a  visit  to  Hell  and  the 
rescue  thence  of  a  shrew  of  whom  Lucifer  was  very  glad  to  be  rid  ; 
finally  the  Palmer  in  a  few  words  expresses  his  surprise  that  there 
should  be  such  shrews  in  Hell,  as  in  all  his  travels  he  never  yet  knew 
one  woman  out  of  patience  —  a  remark  which  straightway  wins  him 
the  preeminence,  though  there  is  more  tedious  wrangling,  before  a 
serious  little  speech  from  the  Pedler  brings  the  play  to  a  close. 
The  Four  PP.  is,  to  our  thinking,  insufferably  spun  out;  but,  except 
in  the  epilogue,  as  we  may  call  it,  it  is  plain  that  its  intention  was 
solely  to  amuse  — 

To  passe  the  tyme  in  thys  without  offence 
Was  the  cause  why  the  maker  dyd  make  it, 
And  so  we  humbly  besechc  you  take  it, 

says  the  Pedler :  —  and  in  substituting  stories  and  a  lighter  form  ot 


i  o  John    Hey  wood 


argument  for  the  more  formal  disputation  of  the  Dyaloge  of  Wit  and 
Folly  and  the  Play  of  Love  it  comes  a  little  nearer  to  the  modern 
conception  of  comedy,  and  may  be  thought  to  have  deserved  the 
success  which  it  is  said  to  have  achieved. 

The  possession  by  the  Plav  of  the  Wether  of  an  obvious  moral  — 
the  mess  which  men  would  make  of  rain,  wind,  and  sunshine  if  they 
had  the  ruling  of  them — -is  undoubtedly  a  link  with  the  interludes 
of  a  didactic  character,  and  so  may  seem  at  first  sight  to  place  it  in 
a  lower  grade  of  dramatic  development.  There  can  be  little  doubt 
that  it  was  acted  by  Heywood's  company  of  u  children,"  whom  we 
hear  of  as  performing  under  his  direction  before  the  Princess  Mary, 
and  a  children's  play  would  perhaps  naturally  be  cast  in  this  form. 
Init  the  form  is  here  less  important  than  the  intention,  and  it  does 
not  need  Mery-report's  comment  ("  now  shall  ye  have  the  wether 
—  even  as  yt  was")  to  tell  us  that  Heywood's  didactics  were  purely 
humorous.  The  point  to  be  noted  is  that  this  is  really  a  play  —  a 
plav,  moreover,  which  if  it  could  be  shortened  and  the  unforgivable 
passages  omitted,  might  be  acted  by  children  of  the  present  day  with 
some  enjoyment.  The  part  of  "the  Hoy,  the  least  that  can  play  " 
is  charming.  There  is  stage  furniture  in  Jupiter's  "  trone,"  and  in 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  characters  at  least  a  semblance  of  ac- 
tion. We  must  note,  however,  the  set  disputation  between  the  two 
millers,  as  still  linking  it  with  Heywood's  other  argumentative  plays, 
though  with  all  its  faults  it  is  the  brightest  and  most  pleasing  of  its 
class. 

We  come  now  to  the  two  plays,  The  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  and 
Johan  "Johan,  which  modern  writers  have  uniformly  assigned  to 
Heywood,  although  William  Rastell  printed  them  !  without  any 
author's  name,  and  no  one  has  yet  adduced  contemporarv  evidence 
for  assigning  them  to  Heywood.  In  neither  of  these  plays  is  there 
any  trace  of  the  disputation  which  in  those  we  have  been  looking  at 
is  so  conspicuous.  They  are  both  true  comedies,  comedies  in  mini- 
ature it  you  like,  but  true  comedies,  with  a  definite  scene  and  dra- 
matic action.  The  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  is  little  more  than  an 
expansion  of  hints  given  by  Chaucer,  from  whom  the  author  docs 
not  hesitate  to  borrow  two  whole  passages,  but  the  development  of 

1  Tbf  Pardoner  and  tie  Frcre  is,  dated   5   April,    1533  ;  Joban  'Joban,   12  February,    I  53 3^" . 


John    Hey  wood  \  \ 

the  little  plot  is  well  managed  and  the  climax  when  the  Parson  and 
Neighbour  Prat  are  badly  worsted  and  the  two  rogues  go  off  in 
triumph  is  thoroughly  artistic.  It  has  been  said  that  this  play  must 
have  been  written  during  the  life  of  Leo  X.,  who  died  in  1521, 
because  the  Pardoner's  speech  contains  the  passage  (omitting  the 
Friar's  interruptions):  — 

Worshypfull  maysters  ye  shall  understand 

That  Pope  Leo  the  X  hath  graunted  with  his  hand, 

And  by  his  bulls  confirmed  under  lede, 

To  all  maner  people,  bothe  quycke  and  dede, 

Ten  thousand  yeres  &  as  many  lentes  of  pardon,  etc.  . 

But  as  Hey  wood  was  probably  born  in  1497,  ^  'ls  extremely  un- 
likely that  his  undoubted  plays  were  written  before  1520,  and  if  the 
evidence  of  this  passage  is  to  be  pressed,  I  should  regard  it  as  abso- 
lutely fatal  to  his  authorship,  it  being  inconceivable  that  anv  one 
who  had  written  the  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  could  subsequently  write 
the  Dyaloge  of  IVyt  and  Folly  or  the  Play  of  Love.  But  there  would  be 
an  obvious  convenience  in  making  a  dead  pope  rather  than  a  living 
one  answerable  for  the  Pardoner's  ribaldries,  and  the  weight  of  this 
argument  is  not  lessened  when  we  remember  that  the  Pardoner 
proceeds  to  quote  also  the  authority  of  the  King.1  Although 
no  alteration  of  date  would  bring  the  play  out  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIIL,  we  may  well  believe  that  that  peremptory  monarch 
might  forgive  such  reflections  on  his  management  of  church  affairs 
at  an  earlier  date  much  more  readily  than  satire  of  a  system  he  was 
then  supporting. 

We  shall  have  to  speak  again  of  the  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  and  its 
probable  date,  but  we  must  pass  on  now  to  Heywood's  masterpiece, 
if  we  may  call  it  his,  the  merv  play  betwene  Johan  Johan,  the  hus- 
bande,  Tyb  his  wyfe  and  Syr  Jhan,  the  preest.  In  approaching  this 
play,  as  in  approaching  Chaucer's  tales  of  the  Miller  and  Reeve 
and  some  of  their  fellows,  we  must,  of  course,  leave  our  morality 

1  And  eke,  yf  thou  dysturbe  me  anythynge, 
Thou  art  also  a  traytour  to  the  Kynge, 
For  here  hath  he  graunted  me  vnder  his  brode  scale 
That  no  man,  yf  he  love  hys  hele, 
Sholde  me  dysturbe  or  let  in  any  wyse. 


1 2  'John   Heywood 

behind  and  accept  the  playwright's  and  tale-teller's  convention  that 
cuckoldry  and  cuckoldmaking  are  natural  subjects  for  humour.  This 
granted,  it  will  be  difficult  to  find  a  flaw  in  the  play.  Like  the 
Pardoner  and  the  Frere  it  is  short,  only  about  one  half  the  length  of 
the  plays  of  Love,  the  I  father,  and  the  Four  PP.,  and  it  gains  greatly 
from  being  less  weighted  with  superfluities.  Johan  Johan  himself, 
with  his  boasting  and  cowardice,  his  eagerness  to  be  deceived,  and 
futile  attempts  to  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter,  his  burning  desire 
to  partake  of  the  pie,  his  one  moment  of  self-assertion,  to  which 
disappointed  hunger  spurs  him,  and  then  his  fresh  collapse  to  ludi- 
crous uneasiness,  —  who  can  deny  that  he  is  a  triumph  of  dramatic 
art,  just  human  enough  and  natural  enough  to  seem  very  human 
and  natural  on  the  stage,  but  with  the  ludicrous  side  of  him  so 

O      J 

sedulously  presented  to  the  spectator  that  there  is  never  any  risk  of 
compassion  for  him  becoming  uncomfortably  acute  ?  The  handling 
of  Tyb  and  Svr  Jhan  is  equally  clever.  Each  in  turn  is  prepared 
to  act  on  the  defensive,  to  be  evasive  and  explanatory,  but  before 
Johan  Johan's  acquiesciveness  such  devices  seem  superfluous,  and 
little  by  little  the  pair  reach  a  height  of  effrontery  not. easily  sur- 
passed. One  of  the  incidents  of  the  plav,  the  melting  of  the  wax 
by  the  fire,  occurs  also  in  a  contemporary  French  Farce  nouuelle  tres- 
honne  ct  fort  ioyeuse  de  Fernet  qiii  va  au  vin,  and  it  is  certainly  in  the 
French  farces  that  we  find  the  nearest  approach  in  tone  and  treat- 
ment, as  well  as  in  form,  to  this  anonymous  Johan  Johan. 

Dates.  The  Authorship  of  "  Thersites."  —  It  may  have  been  noticed 
that  in  passing  these  six  plays  in  review  the  order  followed  has  been 
purely  that  of  their  dramatic  development.  We  know  that  four  of 
them  were  printed  in  1533,  wnen  Heywood  was  thirty-six  or  there- 
abouts, but  with  the  exception  of  the  reference  to  Leo  X.  in  the  Par- 
doner and  the  Frere,  the  significance  of  which  I  have  given  reasons 
tor  considering  doubtful,  no  one  has  yet  detected  any  time-reference 
which  enables  us  to  fix  their  approximate  dates.1  In  his  little 
treatise  John  Heyu'ood  ah  Dramatikcr  (1888)  Dr.  Swoboda  main- 
tains that  the  Pardoner  must  be  placed  earlier  than  the  FourPP.^and 
that  the  I' our  PP.  can  be  shown  to  be  earlier  than  the  anonymous 

1  If  the-  reference  in  1.  636  of  tin-  l'la\  >,f  the  Wether  (see  note)  is  to  IK-  pressed,  this  would 
U:  an  exception,  giving  us  between  I  513  and  1533  as  the  date  of  composition. 


John    Hey  wood  1 3 

play  of  Thersites,  which  we  know  from  its  epilogue  was  acted  at 
Court  between  October  12  and  24,  1537,  the  dates  respectively 
of  the  birth  of  Edward  VI.  and  the  death  of  his  mother,  Jane  Sey- 
mour.1 In  support  of  his  first  point  he  cites  the  fact  that  some  of 
the  relics  ("the  grete  toe  of  the  Trinite  "  and  "of  all  Hallows  the 
blessed  jawbone ")  vaunted  by  the  Pardoner  in  his  sermon  in  the 
church  appear  again  in  the  longer  list  of  relics  in  the  Four  PP. 
In  support  of  the  second  he  quotes  from  Thersites  the  lines2  in  which 
that  hero  proposes  to  visit  Purgatory  and  Hell,  and  traces  in  them 
an  allusion  to  the  Pardoner's  story  in  the  Four  PP.  I  cannot 
accept  either  of  these  arguments  as  decisive  chronologically,  it 
being  quite  as  reasonable  for  a  dramatist  to  abridge  a  list  of  relics 
as  to  expand  it,  while  the  boast  of  Thersites  might  be  represented 
as  the  hint  out  of  which  the  rescue  of  Mistress  Margery  Coorson 
was  developed  no  less  plausibly  than  as  a  reference  to  that  notorious 
lie.  The  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  seems  to  me  dramatically  more 
advanced  than  the  Four  PP.,  and  I  am  therefore  slow  to  accept  any 
argument  which  would  place  it  earlier;  but  even  when  we  allow 
for  the  fact  that  Chaucer  had  fixed  for  all  time  the  humorous  treat- 
ment of  Pardoners,  the  fact  that  the  Pardoners  in  these  two  plays 
are  so  closely  alike  is  an  argument  of  some  weight  for  their  common 
authorship.3  But  if  this  be  so,  the  reference  to  sweeping  Hell 

1  Dr.  Swoboda  erroneously  places  Edward  VI. 's  birth  in  August,  a  slip  of  some  importance 
as  to  some  extent  spoiling  his  argument  that  Tbcrsitcs  must  have  been  written  for  a  performance 
at  an  earlier  date.  But  perhaps  even  in  October  it  would  not  be  quite  correct  to  say  "  All  herbs 
are  dead,"  while  the  reference  to  a  New  Year's  gift,  though  not  quite  decisive,  makes  it  proba- 
ble that  the  play  was  written  for  a  Christmas  entertainment.  In  any  case  it  is  intrinsically  prob- 
able that  a  play  acted  at  an  improvised  festivity  on  the  birth  of  an  heir  to  the  throne  would  be 
an  old  one,  rather  than  specially  written  for  the  occasion. 

2  If  no  man  will  with  me  battle  take, 
A  voyage  to  hell  quickly  I  will  make, 
And  there  I  will  beat  the  devil  and  his  dame, 
And  bring  the  souls  away  :   I  fully  intend  the  same. 
After  that  in  Hell  I  have  ruffled  so, 
Straight  to  old  Purgatory  will  I  go, 
I  will  clean  that  so  purge  round  about 
That  we  shall  need  no  pardons  to  help  them  out. 

8  Dr.  Swoboda,  who  speaks  of  the  plays  from  the  press  of  William  Rastell  as  printed  by  his 
father  (John),  was  apparently  unaware  that  neither  The  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  nor  Joban 
Joban  bears  Heywood's  name,  and  takes  his  authorship  of  them  for  granted. 


14  yohn    Hey  wood 


clean  in  Thersites  may  set  us  wondering  whether  it  was  not  the 
author  of  the  Four  PP.  who  was  most  likely  to  have  written  it  ; 
and  we  may  note  also  the  repetition  in  Thersites  of  the  absurd 
boasting  with  which  Johan  Johan  preludes  his  disclosure  of  his 
cowardice,  while  the  incident  of  Telemachus  belongs  to  that 
u  humour  of  tilth  "  which  I  have  already  noted  as  characteristic 
of  Heywood.  For  the  probability  of  the  latter's  authorship  of 
Thersites  we  may  claim  also  a  little  external  support.  We  have 
already  noticed  that  in  March,  1538,  Heywood  received  forty  shil- 
lings for  the  performance  by  his  "  children  "  of  an  interlude  before 
the  Princess  Mary.  Now  Thersites  is  obviously  intended  for  perform- 
ance bv  children  ;  it  was  acted  a  few  months  previously  to  the  pay- 
ment of  March,  I538,1  in  honour  of  Jane  Seymour,  to  whom  Mary, 
in  return  for  her  abundant  kindness,  was  greatly  attached;  and  again 
Mary's  fondness  for  the  classics  would  explain  the  selection  of  a 
classical  burlesque  if,  as  is  probable,  she  was  present  when  it  was 
acted.  Given  the  facts  that  Heywood  had  already  in  the  Play  of 
the  IVetber  brought  Jupiter  on  the  stage,  that  Thersites  bears  at 
least  some  slight  resemblances  to  other  plays  attributed  to  him, 
that  he  was  in  the  service  of  the  Princess  Mary,  and  was  manager, 
whether  permanently  or  temporarily,  about  this  time,  of  a  company 
of  children,  and  I  think  we  have  a  fairly  strong  case  for  attributing 
Thersites  to  his  pen.  If  this  theory  be  accepted,  the  probability  of 
his  authorship  of  both  the  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  and  Johan  'Joban 
is  considerably  increased  ;  for  if  Thersites  is  by  Heywood,  it  is  good 
enough  to  form  an  important  link  between  these  plays  and  his  argu- 
mentative interludes,  while  if  Thersites  be  not  by  Heywood,  there 
was  then  some  other  playwright  of  the  day  for  whom  a  strong  claim 
might  be  put  forward  to  the  authorship  of  these  other  anonymous 
plays. 

Sources.  —  The  fact  that  an  opportunity  for  writing  about  Hey- 
wood is  not  likely  to  recur  very  often  must  be  offered  as  an  excuse 
for  interpolating  questions  of  detail  into  this  preface.  For  the 
broader  view  of  the  subject  which  we  ought  here  to  take  it  is  obvious 
that  the  authorship  of  this  or  that  play  is  not  very  important.  What 

1  It  is  not  contended  that  the  payment  was  for  the  performance  of  TAersires,  only  that  it 
shows  that  Heywood  was  a  likely  man  to  be  called  on  to  produce  a  play  about  this  period. 


"Jo/in   Hey  wood  \  5 

concerns  us  here  is  that  we  can  see  even  in  the  less  developed  group 
of  plays  English  comedy  emancipating  itself  from  the  miracle-play 
and  morality,  and  in  the  Pardoner  and  the  Frere  and  "Johan  "Joban 
becoming  identical  in  form  with  the  French  fifteenth-century  farce. 
Whether  we  ought  to  go  beyond  this  and  assert  absolute  borrowing 
from  French  originals  is  rather  a  difficult  question.  The  Farce 
nouuelle  d'un  Pardonneur,  d'un  triacleur  et  d'une  tauerniere  may  cer- 
tainly have  supplied  the  idea  both  of  the  preaching-match  between 
Pardoner  and  Friar  and  also  of  the  comparison  of  the  wares  of  Par- 
doner and  Pothccarv.  The  Farce  nouuelle  tresbonne  et  fort  io\euse  de 
Fernet  qui  va  au  vin  contains  two  passages  l  which  must  have  some 
direct  connection  with  Joban  Johan.  The  only  extant  edition  of 
Fernet  qui  va  au  vin  was  "  nouvellement  imprime"  in  1548,  and 
the  date  of  its  prototype  is  unknown.  The  Farce  d'un  Pardonneur, 
in  the  edition  which  has  come  down  to  us,  is  certainly  later  than 
1540,  but  this  also  was  probably  a  reprint.  Thus  despite  the  fact 

1  See  notes  to  11.  263  and  482.      I  quote  here  the  end  of  the  French  farce  in  order  to  give 
the  "  wax  "  episode  in  full. 

Le  Cousin.      Or  ca  cousin  iay  pense 

Dung  subtil  affaire, 

Dont  vous  serez  riche  a  iamas. 
Fernet.      Riche,  cousin  ? 
Le  Cousin.      Certes,  sire,  vous  fault  chauffer 

Et  faire  ung  subtil  ouuraige, 

Qui  vous  gardera  de  dommaige. 

Cousin,  beau  sire. 
Fernet.      Me  fault  il  done  chauffer  la  cire, 

Tandis  que  vous  banqueterez  ? 

Corbieu,  ien  suis  marry, 

Je  croy  que  ce  paste  est  bon. 
Le  Cousin.     Chauffez  &  mettez  du  charbon 

Lymaige  sera  proffittable. 
Fernet.      Vous  irayge  signer  la  table  ? 

Je  scay  bien  le  benedicite. 
Le  Cousin.      Faictes  ce  que  iay  recite. 

Dea  !  cousin  !   ne  perdez  point  de  temps. 
Fernet.     Cest  vng  trespouure  passetemps 

De  chauffer  la  cire  quant  on  digne  ! 

Regardez  elle  est  plus  molle  que  laine, 

En  la  chauffant  rien  naqueste. 
Le  Cousin.      Conclus  &  conqucste  ! 

Auec  la  femme  ie  banqueste, 

Combien  que  ie  ne  soye  le  sire 

Et  son  marv  cliauffe  la  cire. 


1 6  John   Hey  wood 

that  the  handling  of  the  incidents  in  the  English  plays  is  far  more 
skilful  than  in  the  French,  it  would  seem  too  daring  to  suggest  that 
the  French  farces  can  be  borrowed  from  the  English,  and  in  any 
case  we  may  imagine  that  the  English  dramatist  did  not  make  his 
new  departure  unaided,  but  was  consciously  working  on  the  lines 
which  had  long;  been  popular  in  France.  By  doing  so  he  did  not 
lay  the  foundation  of  English  comedy,  for  it  was  not  on  these  lines 
that  our  comedy  subsequently  developed.  But  it  was  at  least  a  hope- 
ful omen  for  the  future  that  an  English  playwright  so  easily  attained 
a  real  mastery  in  the  only  school  of  comedy  with  which  he  could 
have  been  acquainted.  It  was  something  also  that  the  right  of 
comedy  to  exist  as  a  source  of  amusement  apart  from  instruction 
had  been  successfully  vindicated.  These  were  two  real  achieve- 
ments, and  they  must  always  be  connected  with  the  name  of  John 
Hey  wood. 

"  Play  of  the  Wether  "  :  Early  Editions  and  the  Present  Text.  — At 
the  time  I  write,  the  Plav  of  the  Wether  has  not  been  reprinted  since 
the  sixteenth  century.  Its  bibliography  has  been  rather  confused 
by  the  existence  of  two  texts  of  it,  one  at  St.  John's  College,  Oxford, 
the  other  at  the  University  Library,  Cambridge,  each  wanting  the  last 
leaf,  containing  in  the  one  case  twenty,  and  in  the  other  sixteen,  lines 
of  the  text  and  the  colophon  with  the  printer's  name.  The  only  per- 
fect copy  hitherto  generally  known  is  that  preserved  at  the  Bodleian 
Library,  which  belongs  to  an  edition  "  Imprinted  at  London  in  Paules 
Churchyearde,  at  the  Sygne  of  the  Sunne,  by  Anthonie  Kvtson  " 
whose  career  as  a  publisher  seems  to  have  been  comprised  within  the 
years  1549  and  1579.  Of  this  as  the  only  complete  edition  I  then 
knew  I  made  my  first  transcript,  though  subsequent  collation  showed 
that  the  imperfect  edition  at  St.  John's  College  contained  many  better 
readings  and  an  earlier  spelling,  while  the  copy  at  the  University 
Library,  Cambridge  (sometimes,  though  I  think  erroneously,  attrib- 
uted to  the  press  of  Robert  Wyer),  belonged  to  an  intermediate 
edition.  The  registration  by  the  Bibliographical  Society  in  its  Hand- 
lists of  English  Printers,  I  501  —  1  556,  of  the  copy  ofan  edition  of  I  533, 
printed  by  William  Rastell,  in  the  Pepys  Collection  at  Magdalene 
College,  Cambridge,  sent  me  to  Cambridge  for  a  new  transcript. 
On  examination,  the  Magdalene  edition  proved  to  be  identical  with 


"John    Hey  wood  1 7 

that  at  St.  John's  College,  Oxford,  which  had  previously  been  con- 
jecturally  assigned  to  Rastell,  perhaps  by  some  one  who  had  seen  it 
before  the  last  leaf  disappeared.  In  reproducing  Rastell's  text  I 
have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  print  my  collation  of  the  later  edi- 
tions, as  it  is  clear  that  the  unidentified  edition  at  the  University 
Library,  Cambridge  (U.  L.  C.),  was  printed  from  Rastell's,  and  Kit- 
son's  from  this.  The  printer  of  the  U.  L.  C.  edition  introduced 
some  errors  into  his  text,  most  of  which  Kitson  copied  :  e.g.  hote  for 
bore  in  1.  38,  omission  of  second  so  in  1.  68,  and  of  second  as  in 
1.  72,  name  for  maner  in  1.  115,  or  for  of'm  \.  357,  we  for  /  in  1.  427, 
plumyng  for  plumpyng  in  1.  657,  thynges  for  thynge  in  1.  660,  showryng 
for  skvwryng  in  1.  66l,  ye  for  \t  in  1.  699,  and  for  all  in  1.  705,  belyke 
for  be  leak\e\y  in  1.  800 ;  though  he  corrected  a  few  :  e.g.  pale  for  dale 
in  1.  277.  On  the  other  hand,  Kitson  introduced  some  sixty  or 
seventy  errors  of  his  own,  such  as  creatour  for  creature  in  1.  5,  well 
for  we  in  1.  21,  myngled  for  mynglynge  in  1.  144,  mery  for  mary  in 
1.  366,  beseched  for  besecheth  in  1.  347,  pycked  for  prycked  in  1.  467, 
bodily  for  boldely  in  1.  470,  solyter  for  solycyter  in  1.  496,  etc.  As  these 
variations  are  obviously  misprints  and  nothing  more,  it  would  have 
been  pedantic  to  record  them  in  full,  and  these  samples  will  doubt- 
less suffice.  The  following  title-page  is  a  representation,  not  a 
reproduction,  of  the  original.  There  is  no  running  head-line  in 
Rastell's  text. 

ALFRED  W.  POLLARD. 


pla£  of  the  wetber 


<LH  new  anb  a  \>ev\> 

mer\>  enterlube  of 

all  inanet  we^ 

there  tnabe 

3obn  Ibe^woob, 


names?, 
31upttrr  a  god. 

reportr  tlje  topee. 
gentplman* 
mareljaunt* 
ranger, 
toater  miller, 
topnDe  miller. 
gentpltooman, 
launder, 
bop  tlje  left  tljat  ean  plap, 


'9 


ki  (j- 


The    Play  of  the  Wether 


Jupyte 


Aii 


(Yght  farre  to  longe,  as  now,  were  to  recyte 

The  auncyent  estate  wherein  our  selfe  hath  reyned, 
What  honour,  what  laude,  gyven  us  of  very  ryght, 
What  glory  we  have  had,  dewly  unfayned, 

Of  eche  creature,  which  dewty  hath  constrayned  ;  5 

For  above  all  goddes,  syns  our  father's  fale, 

We,  Jupiter,  were  ever  pryncypale. 

If  we  so  have  beene,  as  treuth  yt  is  in  dede, 

Beyond  the  compas  of  all  comparyson, 

Who  coulde  presume  to  shew,  for  any  mede,  IO 

So  that  yt  myght  appere  to  humayne  reason, 

The  hye  renowne  we  stande  in  at  this  season  ? 

For,  syns  that  heven  and  earth  were  fyrste  create, 

Stode  we  never  in  suche  tryumphaunt  estate 

As  we  now  do,  whereof  we  woll  reporte  15 

Suche  parte  as  we  se  mete  for  tyme  present, 

Chyefely  concernynge  your  1  perpetuall  comforte, 

As  the  thynge  selfe  shall  prove  in  experyment, 

Whyche  hyely  shall  bynde  you,  on  knees  lowly  bent, 

Sooly  to  honour  oure  hyenes,  day  by  day.  20 

And  now  to  the  mater  gyve  eare,  and  we  shall  say. 

Before  our  presens,  in  our  hye  parlyament, 
Both  goddes  and  goddeses  of  all  degrees 
Hath2  late  assembled,  by  comcn  assent, 

1  I.e.  of  the  audience  as  representing  mankind. 

a  For  use  as  a  plural  cf.  1.  347  'besecheth,'  844  'ye  doth.* 


22  The  Play  of  the  W T ether 

For  the  redres  of  certayne  enormytees,  25 

Bred  amonge  them,  thorow  extremytees 
Abusyd  in  eche  to  other  of  them  all, 
Namely,  to  purpose,  in  these  moste  specyall  : 

Our  forsayde  father  Saturne,  and  Phebus, 

Eolus  and  Phebe,  these  foure  1  by  name,  30 

Whose  natures,  not  onely,  so  farre  contraryous, 

But  also  of  malyce  eche  other  to  defame, 

Have  longe  tyme  abused,  ryght  farre  out  of  frame, 

The  dew  course  of  all  theyr  constellacyons, 

To  the  great  damage  of  all  yerthly  nacyons  :  35 

Whyche  was  debated  in  place  sayde  before ;  A  ii  b 

And  fyrste,  as  became,  our  father  moste  auncyent, 

With  berde  whyte  as  snow,  his  lockes  both  colde  &  hore, 

Hath  entred2  such  mater  as  served  his  entent, 

Laudynge  his  frosty  mansyon  in  the  fyrmament,  40 

To  ayre  &  yerth  as  thynge  moste  precyous, 

Pourgynge  all  humours  that  are  contagyous. 

How  be  yt,  he  alledgeth  that,  of  longe  tyme  past, 

Lyttell  hath  prevayled  his  great  dylygens, 

Full  oft  uppon  yerth  his  fayre  frost  he  hath  cast,  45 

All  thynges  hurtfull  to  banysh  out  of  presens. 

But  Phebus,  entendynge  to  kepe  him  in  sylens, 

When  he  hath  labored  all  nyght  in  his  powres,3 

His  glarvnge  beamys  maryth  all  in  two  howres. 

Phebus  to  this  made  no  maner  answerynge,  50 

Whercuppon  they  both  then  Phebe  defyed, 

Eche  for  his  parte  leyd  in  her  reprovynge 

That  by  her  showres  superfluous  they  have  tryed4; 

In  all  that  she  may  theyr  powres  be  denyed  ; 

Wherunto  Phebe  made  answcre  no  more  55 

Then  Phebus  to  Saturne  hadde  made  before. 

1  The  dispensers  respectively  of  frost,  sunshine,  wind,  and  rain. 

2  placed  on  record.  8  powers,  not  'pores.'  *  that  which  they  have  experienced. 


The  Play  of  the  U^ ether  23 

Anone  uppon  Eolus  all  these  dyd  fle, 

Complaynynge  theyr  causes,  eche  one  arow, 

And  sayd,  to  compare,  none  was  so  evyll  as  he ; 

For,  when  he  is  dysposed  his  blastes  to  blow,  60 

He  suffereth  neyther  sone-shyne,  rayne  nor  snowe. 

They  eche  agaynste  other,  and  he  agaynste  al  three,— 

Thus  can  these  iiii  in  no  maner  agree ! 

Whyche  sene  in  themselfe,  and  further  consyderynge, 

The  same  to  redres  was  cause  of  theyr  assemble;  65 

And,  also,  that  we,  evermore  beynge, 

Besyde  our  puysaunt  power  of  deite, 

Of  wysedome  and  nature  so  noble  and  so  fre, 

From  all  extremytees  the  meane  devydynge, 

To  pease  and  plente  eche  thynge  attemperynge,  70 

They  have,  in  conclusyon,  holly  surrendryd  A  Hi 

Into  our  handes,  at  mych  as  concernynge 

All  maner  wethers  by  them  engendryd, 

The  full  of  theyr  powrs,  for  terme  everlastynge, 

To  set  suche  order  as  standyth  wyth  our  pleasynge,  75 

Whyche  thynge,  as  of  our  parte,  no  parte  requyred, 

But  of  all  theyr  partys  ryght  humbly  desyred, 

To  take  uppon  us.    Wherto  we  dyd  assente.  <>• 

And  so  in  all  thynges,  with  one  voyce  agreable,       b 

We  have  clerely  fynyshed  our  foresayd  parleament,    *"          80 

To  your  great  welth,  whyche  shall  be  fyrme  and  stable, U 

And  to  our  honour  farre  inestymable ;  b 

For  syns  theyr  powers,  as  ours,  addyd  to  our  owne,       c. 

Who  can,  we  say,  know  us  as  we  shulde  be  knowne  ?    »• 

But  now,  for  fyne,1  the  rest  of  our  entent,  85 

Wherfore,  as  now,  we  hyther  are  dyscendyd, 

Is  onely  to  satysfye  and  content 

All  maner  people  whyche  have  been  oftendyd 

By  any  wether  mete  to  be  amendyd, 

1  conclusion. 


24  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

Uppon  whose  complayntes,  declarynge  theyr  grefe,  90 

We  shall  shape  remedye  for  theyr  relefe. 

And  to  gyve  knowledge  for  theyr  hyther  resorte 
We  wolde  thys  afore  proclaymed  to  be, 
To  all  our  people,  by  some  one  of  thys  sorte,1 
Whome  we  lyste  to  choyse  here  amongest  all  ye.  95 

Wherfore  eche  man  avaunce,  and  we  shal  se 
Whyche  of  you  is  moste  mete  to  be  our  cryer. 

Here  entretb  MERY-REPORTE. 

Mery-reporte.    Brother,2  holde  up  your  torche  a  lytell  hyer ! 

Now,  I  bcseche  you,  my  lorde,  loke  on  me  turste. 

I  truste  your  lordshyp  shall  not  fynde  me  the  wurste.  IOO 

Jupvter.    Why  !   what  arte  thou  that  approchyst  so  ny  ? 
Mery-reporte.    Forsothe,  and  please  your  lordshyppe,  it  is  I. 
Jupvter.    All  that  we  knowe  very  well,  But  what  I  ? 
Mery-reporte.    What  I  ?     Some  saye  I  am  I  perse   I.3 

But,  what  maner  I  so  ever  be  I,  105 

I  assure  your  good  lordshyp,  I  am  I. 

Jupvter.    What  maner  man  arte  thou,  shewe  quickely.  A  iii  b 

Mery-reporte.    By  god,  a  poore  gentylman,  dwellyth  hereby. 
Jupvter.    A  gentylman  !      Thyselfe  bryngeth  wytnes  naye, 

Both  in  thy  lyght  behavour  and  araye,  110 

But  what  arte  thou  called  where  thou  dost  resorte  ? 
Mery-reporte.  Forsoth,  my  lorde,  mayster  Mery-reporte. 
Jupvter.  Thou  arte  no  mete  man  in  our  bysynes, 

For  thyne  apparence  is  of  to  mych  lyghtnes. 
Mery-reporte.    Why,  can  not  your  lordshyp  lyke  my  maner  115 

Myne  apparell,  nor  my  name  nother  ? 
Jupvter.    To  nother  of  all  we  have  devocyon. 
Mer\-reporte.    A  proper  lycklyhod  of  promocyon  ! 

Well,  than,  as  wyse  as  ye  seme  to  be, 

Yet  can  ye  se  no  wysdome  in  me.  I2Q 

1  I.e.  some  one  in  the-  audience. 

2  Said  to  one  of  the  attendants. 

3  The   phrase   in   alphabet-learning   for  a   letter  sounded   by  itself ;    cf.    Wily  Beguiled:  "A 
per  se  A  "  (Hawkins1  Origin  of  Knglish  Drama,  3  :    357.      Oxford  :    1772). 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  25 

But  syns  ye  dysprayse  me  for  so  lyghte  an  elfe, 

I  praye  you  gyve  me  leve  to  prayse  my-selfe : 

And,  for  the  fyrste  parte,  I  wyll  begyn 

In  my  behavour  at  my  commynge  in, 

Wherin  I  thynke  I  have  lytell  offendyd,  125 

For,  sewer,  my  curtesy  coulde  not  be  amendyd ; 

And,  as  for  my  sewt  your  servaunt  to  be, 

Myghte  yll  have  bene  myst  for  your  honeste; 

For,  as  I  be  saved,  yf  I  shall  not  lye, 

I  saw  no  man  sew  for  the  offyce  but  I  !  130 

Wherfore  yf  ye  take  me  not  or  I  go, 

Ye  must  anone,  whether  ye  wyll  or  no. 

And  syns  your  entent  is  but  for  the  wethers, 

What  skyls  1  our  apparell  to  be  fryse  2  or  fethers  ? 

I  thynke  it  wisdome,  syns  no  man  forbad  it,  135 

With  thys  to  spare  a  better  —  yf  I  had  it ! 

And,  for  my  name,  reportyng  alwaye  trewly, 

What  huite  to  reporte  a  sad  mater  merely  ? 

As,  by  occasyon,  for  the  same  entent, 

To  a  serteyne  wedow  thys  daye  was  I  sent,  140 

Whose  husbande  departyd  wythout  her  wyttynge, 

A  specyall  good  lover  and  she  hys  owne  swettynge  !  3 

To  whome,  at  my  commyng,  I  caste  suche  a  fygure, 

Mynglynge  the  mater  accordynge  to  my  nature, 

That  when  we  departyd,4  above  al  other  thynges,  145 

She  thanked  me  hartely  for  my  mery  tydynges  ! 

And  yf  I  had  not  handled  yt  merely,  A  iv 

Perchaunce  she  myght  have  taken  yt  hevely  ; 

But  in  suche  facyon  I  conjured  and  bounde  her, 

That  I  left  her  meryer  then  I  founde  her!  150 

What  man  may  compare  to  showe  the  lyke  comforte 

That  dayly  is  shewed  by  me,  Mery-reporte  ? 

And,  for  your  purpose,  at  this  tyme  ment, 

For  all  wethers  I  am  so  indyftcrent,5 

Without  affeccyon,  standynge  so  up-ryght,  155 

Son-lyght,  mone-lyght,  stcr-lyght,  twy-light,  torch-light, 

latters.  a  frieze.  8  sweeting,  sweetheart.  4  separated.  6  impartial. 


26  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

Cold,  hete,  moyst,  drye,  hayle,  rayne,  frost,   snow,  lightnyng, 

thunder, 

Cloudy,  mysty,  wyndy,  fay  re,  fowle,  above  hed  or  under, 
Temperate  or  dystemperate,  whatever  yt  be, 
I  promyse  your  lordshyp,  all  is  one  to  me.  160 

'Jitp\ter.    Well,  sonne,  consydrynge  thyne  indyfTerency, 
And  partely  the  rest  ol  thy  declaracyon, 
We  make  the  our  servaunte  and  immediately 
Well  woll  thou  departe  and  cause  proclamacyon, 
Publyshynge  our  pleasure  to  every  nacyon,  165 

Whyche  thynge  ons  done,  wyth  all  dylygens, 
Make  thy  returne  agayne  to  this  presens, 

Here  to  receyve  all  sewters  of  eche  degre ; 

And  suche  as  to  the  may  seme  moste  metely, 

We  wyll  thou  brynge  them  before  our  majeste,  170 

And  for  the  rest,  that  be  not  so  worthy, 

Make  thou  reporte  to  us  effectually, 

So  that  we  may  heare  eche  maner  sewte  at  large. 

Thus  se  thow  departe  and  loke  uppon  thy  charge  ! 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  good  my  lorde  god,  our  lady  be  wyth  ye  !         175 
Frendes,  a  tellyshyppe,1  let  me  go  by  ye  ! 
Thynke  ye  I  may  stande  thrustyng  amonge  you  there  ? 
Nay,  by  god,  I  muste  thruste  aboute  other  gere  ! 

MERY-REPORTE  goctb  out. 

At  thende 2  of  this  staf3  the  god  bath  a  song  played  in  his  trone  or 
MERY-REPORTE   come  in. 

Jupiter.    Now,  syns  we  have  thus  farre  set  forth  our  purpose, 

A  whyle  we  woll  wythdraw  our  godly  presens,  180 

To  embold  all  such  more  playnely  to  dysclose, 
As  here  wyll  attende,  in  our  foresayd  pretens. 
And  now,  accordynge  to  your  obedyens,  A  iv  A 

Rejovcc  ve  in  us  with  jov  most  joyfully, 

And  we  our-selfe  shall  joy  in  our  owne  glory  !  185 

[JupiTER  here  closes  the  curtains  of  his  throne.^ 
1  out  of  good  fellowship.  "  the  end.  8  equivalent  to  stanza. 


The  Play  of  the  H^ ether  27 

MERY-REPORTE  tometh  in. 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  syrs,  take   hede !  for  here  cometh  goddes  ser- 

vaunt ! 

Avaunt !   carte  [r]ly  keytyfs,1  avaunt  ! 
Why,  ye  dronken  horesons,  wyll  yt  not  be  ? 
By  your  fayth,  have  ye  nother  cap  nor  kne? 
Not  one  of  you  that  wyll  make  curtsy  190 

To  me,  that  am  squyre  for  goddes  precyous  body  ? 
Regarde  ye  nothynge  myne  authoryte  ? 
No  welcome  home  !   nor  where  have  ye  be  ? 
How  be  yt,  yf  ye  axyd,  I  coulde  not  well  tell, 
But  suer  I  thynke  a  thousande  myle  from  hell,  195 

And  on  my  fayth,  I  thinke,  in  my  consciens, 
I  have  been  from  hewn  as  farre  as  heven  is  hens,    : 
At  Lovyn,2  at  London  and  in  Lombardy, 
At  Baldock,3  at  Barfolde,4  and  in  Barbary, 
At  Canturbery,  at  Coventre,  at  Colchester,  200 

At  Wansworth  and  Welbecke,5  at  Westchester, 
At  Fullam,  at  Falcborne,  and  at  Fenlow, 
At  Wallyngford,  at  Wakefeld,  and  at  Waltamstow, 
At  Tawnton,  at  Typtre6  and  at  Totnam,7 
At  Glouceter,  at  Gylford  and  at  Gotham,  205 

At  Hartforde,  at  Harwyche,  at  Harowe  on  the  hyll, 
At  Sudbery,8  Suth  hampton,  at  Shoters  Hyll,9 
At  Walsingham,  at  Wyttam10  and  at  Werwycke, 
At  Boston,  at  Brystow11  and  at  Berwycke, 
At  Gravelyn,12  at  Gravesend,  and  at  Glastynbery,  210 

Ynge  Gyngiang  Jayberd  the  paryshe  of  Butsbery.13 
The  devyll  hym-selfe,  wythout  more  leasure, 
Could  not  have  gone  halfe  thus  myche,  I  am  sure ! 

1  clownish  rascals.  7  Tottenham. 

2  Louvain.  8  In  Suffolk. 

8  In  Herts.  9  Near  Woolwich. 

4  Perhaps  one  of  the  numerous  Barfords.  10  Witham,  in  Essex. 

6  In  Notts.  u  Bristol. 

8  In  Essex.  12  Possibly  Gravelye  near  Baldock. 

18  There  is  a  parish  of  Buttsbury  in  Essex  :  '  ynge  Gyngiang  Jayberd  '  defies  explanation. 


28  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

But,  now  I  have  warned  *  them,  let  them  even  chose ; 

For,  in  fayth,  I  care  not  who  wynne  or  lose  215 

Here  the  gentylman  before  be  cometb  in  blowetb  bis  borne. 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  by  my  trouth,  this  was  a  goodly  hearyng. 

I  went  yt  had  ben  the  gentylwomans  blowynge ! 

But  yt  is  not  so,  as  I  now  suppose, 

For  womens  Ijornes  sounde  more  in  a  mannys  nose.  22O 

Gentylman.    Stande  ye  mery,  my  frendes,  everychone.  B  i 

Mery-reporte.    Say  that  to  me  and  let  the  rest  alone  ! 

Svr,  ye  be  welcome,  and  all  your  meyny. 
Gentylman.    Now,  in  good  sooth,  my  frende,  god  a  mercy  ! 

And  syns  that  I  mete  the  here  thus  by  chaunce,  225 

I  shall  requyre  the  of  further  acqueyntaunce, 

And  brevely  to  shew  the,  this  is  the  mater. 

I  come  to  sew  to  the  great  god  Jupyter 

For  helpe  of  thynges  concernynge  my  recreacyon, 

Accordynge  to  his  late  proclamacyon.  230 

Mery-reporte.    Mary,  and  I  am  he  that  this  must  spede. 

But  fyrste  tell  me  what  be  ye  in  dede. 
Gentylman.    Forsoth,  good  frende,  I  am  a  gentylman. 
Mery-reporte.    A  goodly  occupacyon,  by  seynt  Anne  ! 

On  my  fayth,  your  maship2  hath  a  mery  life.  235 

But  who  maketh  all  these  homes,  your  self  or  your  wife  ? 

Nay,  even  in  earnest,  I  aske  you  this  questyon. 
Gentylman.    Now,  by  my  trouth,  thou  art  a  mery  one. 
Mery-reporte.    In  fayth,  of  us  both  I  thynke  never  one  sad, 

For  I  am  not  so  mery  but  ye  seme  as  mad  !  240 

But  stande  ye  styll  and  take  a  lyttell  payne, 

I  wyll  come  to  you,  by  and  by,  agayne. 

Now,  gracyous  god,  yf  your  wyll  so  be, 

I  pray  yc,  let  me  speke  a  worde  wyth  ye 

'Jupyter.     My  sonne,  say  on  !    Let  us  here  thy  mynde  245 

Mery-reporte.    My  lord,  there  standeth  a  sewter  even  here  behynde, 

A  Gentylman,  in  yonder  corner, 

1  Have  given  notice  to  the  petitioners  to  appear.     The  '  cry  '  is  supposed  to  have  been  made 
outside.  2  mastership. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  29 

And,  as  I  thynke,  his  name  is  Mayster  Horner 

A  hunter  he  is,  and  cometh  to  make  you  sporte. 

He  wolde  hunte  a  sow  or  twayne  out  of  thys  sorte.1  250 

Here  be  poyntetb  to  the  women. 

Jupyter.    What  so  ever  his  mynde  be,  let  hym  appere. 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  good  mayster  Horner,  I  pray  you  come  nere. 

Gentylman.    I  am  no  horner,  knave !     I  wyll  thou  know  yt. 

Mery-reporte.    I  thought  ye  had  [been],  for  when  ye  dyd  blow  yt, 
Harde  I  never  horeson  make  home  so  goo.  255 

As  lefe  ye  kyste  myne  ars  as  blow  my  hole  soo ! 
Come  on  your  way,  before  the  God  Jupyter, 
And  there  for  your  selfe  ye  shall  be  sewter. 

Gentylman.    Most  myghty  prynce  and  god  of  every  nacyon, 

Pleaseth  your  hyghnes  to  vouchsave  the  herynge  260 

Of  me,  whyche,  accordynge  to  [y]our  proclamacyon,         Bi  b 

Doth  make  apparaunce,  in  way  of  besechynge, 

Not  sole  for  myself,  but  generally 

For  all  come  of  noble  and  auncyent  stock, 

Whych  sorte  above  all  doth  most  thankfully  265 

Dayly  take  payne  for  welth  of  the  comen  flocke, 

With  dylygent  study  alway  devysynge 

To  kepe  them  in  order  and  unyte, 

In  peace  to  labour  the  encrees  of  theyr  lyvynge, 

Wherby  eche  man  may  prosper  in  plente.  270 

Wherfore,  good  god,  this  is  our  hole  desyrynge, 

That  for  ease  of  our  paynes,  at  tymes  vacaunt, 

In  our  recreacyon,  whyche  chyefely  is  huntynge, 

It  may  please  you  to  sende  us  wether  pleasaunt, 

Drye  and  not  mysty,  the  wynde  calme  and  styll.  275 

That  after  our  houndes  yournynge2  so  meryly, 

Chasynge  the  dere  over  dale  and  hyll, 

In  herynge  we  may  folow  and  to-comfort  the  cry. 

Jupyter.    Ryght  well  we  do  perceyve  your  hole  request, 

Whyche  shall  not  fayle  to  reste  in  memory,  280 

Wherfore  we  wyll  ye  set  your-selfe  at  rest, 

1  the  audience.  2  journeying. 


30  The  Play  of  the  Wether 

Tyll  we  have  herde  eche  man  indyfferently, 
And  we  shall  take  suche  order,  unyversally, 
As  best  may  stande  to  our  honour  infynyte, 
For  welth  in  commune  and  ech  mannys  synguler  profyte.  285 

Gentylman.    In  heven  and  yerth  honoured  be  the  name 
Of  Jupyter,  who  of  his  godly  goodnes 
Hath  set  this  mater  in  so  goodly  frame, 
That  every  wyght  shall  have  his  desyre,  doutles. 
And  fyrst  for  us  nobles  and  gentylmen,  290 

I  doute  not,  in  his  wysedome,  to  provyde 
Suche  wether  as  in  our  huntynge,  now  and  then, 
We  may  both  teyse  1  and  receyve2  on  every  syde. 
Whyche  thynge,  ones  had,  for  our  seyd  recreacyon, 
Shall  greatly  prevayle3  you  in  preferrynge  our  helth  295 

'  For  what  thynge  more  nedefull  then  our  preservacyon, 
Beynge  the  weale  and  heddes  of  all  comen  welth  ? 

Mery-reporte.    Now  I  besech  your  mashyp,  whose  hed  be  you  ? 

Gentylman.    Whose  hed  am  I  ?     Thy  hed.     What  seyst  thou  now  ? 

Mery-reporte.    Nay,  I  thynke  yt  very  trew,  so  god  me  helpe  !       300 
For  I  have  ever  bene,  of  a  lyttell  whelpe,  B  ii 

So  full  of  fansyes,  and  in  so  many  fyttes, 
So  many  smale  reasons,  and  in  so  many  wyttes, 
That,  even  as  I  stande,  I  pray  God  I  be  dede, 
If  ever  I  thought  them  all  mete  for  one  hede.  305 

But  syns  I  have  one  hed  more  then  I  knew, 
Blame  not  my  rejoycynge,  —  I  love  all  thinges  new. 
And  suer  it  is  a  treasour  of  heddes  to  have  store  : 
One  feate  can  I  now  that  I  never  coude  before. 

Gentylman.    What  is  that  ? 

Mery-reporte.  By  god,  syns  ye  came  hyther,  310 

I  can  set  my  hedde  and  my  tayle  togyther. 
This  hed  shall  save  mony,  by  Saynt  Mary, 
From  hcnsforth  I  wyll  no  potycary  ; 
For  at  al  tymys,  when  suche  thynges  shall  myster 
My  new  hed  shall  gcve  myne  olde  tayle  a  glyster.4  315 

And,  after  all  this,  then  shall  my  hedde  wayte 

1  roust-  the  game.  '2  call  off  after  a  kill.  'J  avail.  4  -lyster,  purge. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  31 

Uppon  my  tayle,  and  there  stande  at  receyte. 

Syr,  for  the  reste  I  wyll  not  now  move  you, 

But,  yf  we  lyve,  ye  shall  smell  how  I  love  yow. 

And,  sir,  touchyng  your  sewt  here,  depart,  when  it  please  you 

For  be  ye  suer,  as  I  can  I  wyll  ease  you.  321 

Gentylman.    Then  gyve  me  thy  hande.     That  promyse  I  take. 

And  yf  for  my  sake  any  sewt  thou  do  make, 

I  promyse  thy  payne  to  be  requyted 

More  largely  than  now  shall  be  recyted.  325 

Mery-reporte.    Alas,  my  necke  !      Goddes  pyty,  where  is  my  hed  ? 
s-v      By  Saynt  Yve,  I  feare  me  I  shall  be  deade. 
i^Vv.And  yf  I  were,  me-thynke  yt  were  no  wonder, 

Syns  my  hed  and  my  body  is  so  farre  asonder, 

Entreth  the  MARCHAUNT.      lov>^    t 

Mayster  person,1  now  welcome  by  my  life  !  330 

I  pray  you,  how  doth  my  maistres,  your  wyfe  ? 2 

Marchaunt.    Syr,  for  the  presthod  and  wyfe  that  ye  alledge 
I  se  ye  speke  more  of  dotage  then  knowledge. 
But  let  pas,  syr,  I  wolde  to  you  be  sewter 
To  brynge  me,  yf  ye  can,  before  Jupiter.  335 

\_Mery-r  eporte^}     Yes,  Mary,  can  I,  and  wyll  do  yt  in  dede. 

Tary,  and  I  shall  make  wey  for  your  spede.      [Goes  to  JUPYTER] 
In  fayth,  good  lorde,  yf  it  please  your  gracyous  godshyp, 
I  muste  have  a  worde  or  twayne  wyth  your  lordship.  B  ii  /> 

Syr,  yonder  is  a  nother  man  in  place,  340 

Who  maketh  great  sewt  to  speke  wyth  your  grace. 
Your  pleasure  ones  knowen,  he  commeth  by  and  by.3 

Jupyter.    Bryng  hym  before  our  presens,  sone,  hardely. 

Mery-reporte.    Why  !   where  be  you  ?   shall  I  not  fynde  ye  ? 

Come  a-way,  I  pray  god,  the  devyll  blynde  ye  !  345 

Marchaunt.    Moste  myghty  prynce  and  lorde  of  lordes  all, 
Right  humbly  besecheth  your  majeste 
Your  marchaunt-men  thorow  the  worlde  all, 

1  parson. 

2  As  the  play  was  written  before  1533,  the  clergy  were  still  celibates,  and  this  is  only  Mery- 
reporte's  '  humour. '  8  immediately. 


32  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

That  yt  may  please  you,  of  your  benygnyte, 

In  the  dayly  daunger  of  our  goodes  and  lyfe,  350 

Fyrste  to  consyder  the  desert  of  our  request, 

What  welth  we  bryng  the  rest,  to  our  great  care  &  stryfe, 

And  then  to  rewarde  u-  a    v'e  shall  thynke  best. 

What  were  the  surplysage  of  eche  commodyte, 

Whyche  groweth  and   Micreaseth  in  every  lande,  355 

Excepte  exchaunge  by  suche  men  as  we  be  ? 

Bv  wey  of  entercours,  that  lyeth  on  our  hande  * 

We  fraught  from  home,  thynges  wherof  there  is  plente; 

And  home  we  brynge  such  thynges  as  there  be  scant. 

Who  sholde  afore  us  marchauntes  accompted  be  ?  360 

For  were  not  we,  the  worlde  shuld  wyshe  and  want 

In  many  thynges,  whych  now  shall  lack  rehersall. 

And,  brevely  to  conclude,  we  beseche  your  hyghnes 

That  of  the  benefyte  proclaymed  in  generall 

We  may  be  parte-takers,  for  comen  encres,  365 

Stablyshynge  wether  thus,  pleasynge  your  grace, 

Stormy,  nor  mysty,  the  wynde  mesurable. 

That  savely  we  may  passe  from  place  to  place, 

Berynge  our  seylys  for  spede  moste  vayleable  ; a 

And  also  the  wynde  to  chaunge  and  to  turne,  370 

Eest,  West,  North  and  South,  as  best  may  be  set, 

In  any  one  place  not  to  longe  to  sojourne, 

For  the  length  of  our  vyage  may  lese  our  market. 

Jupyter.    Right  well  have  ye  sayde,  and  we  accept  yt  so, 

And  so  shall  we  rewarde  you  ere  we  go  hens.  375 

But  ye  muste  take  pacyens  tyll  we  have  harde  mo,3 

That  we  may  indyfferently  gyve  semens. 

There  may  passe  by  us  no  spot  of  neglygence, 

But  justely  to  judge  eche  thynge,  so  upryghte  B  iii 

That  ech  mans  parte  maye  shyne  in  the  selfe  ryghte.4          380 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  syr,  by  your  fayth,  yf  ye  shulde  be  sworne, 
Harde  ye  ever  god  speke  so,  syns  ye  were  borne  ? 
So  wysely,  so  gentylly  hys  wordes  be  showd  ! 

1  Explained  by  'thynges  wherof  there  is  plente.'  3  heard  more,  or  others. 

2  available.  4  in  the  same  Tightness. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  33 

Marchaunt.    I  thanke  hys  grace.      My  sewte  is  well  bestowd. 

Mery-reporte.    Syr,  what  vyage  entende  ye  nexte  to  go  ?  385 

Marchaunt.    I  truste  or  myd-lente  to  be  to  Syo.1 

Mery-reporte.    Ha,  ha  !   Is  it  your  mynde  to  sayle  at  Syo  ? 
Nay,  then,  when  ye  wyll,  byr  lady,  ye  maye  go, 
And  let  me  alone  with  thys.      Be  of  good  chere  ! 
Ye  maye  truste  me  at  Syo  as  well  as  here.  390 

For  though  ye  were  fro  me  a  thousande  myle  space, 
I  wolde  do  as  myche  as  ye  were  here  in  place, 
For,  syns  that  from  hens  it  is  so  farre  thyther, 
I  care  not  though  ye  never  come  agayne  hyther. 

Marchaunt.    Syr,  yf  ye  remember  me,  when  tyme  shall  come,    395 
Though  I  requyte  not  all,  I  shall  deserve  some. 

Exeat  MARCHAUNT. 

Mery-reporte.    Now,  farre  ye  well,  &  god  thanke  you,  by  saynt  Anne, 
I  pray  you,  marke  the  fasshyon  of  thys  honeste  manne ; 
He  putteth  me  in  more  truste,  at  thys  metynge  here, 
Then  he  shall  fynde  cause  why,  thys  twenty  yere.  400 

Here  entreth  the  RANGER.  - 

Ranger.    God  be  here,  now  Cryst  kepe  thys  company  ! 
Mery-reporte.    In  fayth,  ye  be  welcome,  evyn  very  skantely  ! 

Syr,  for  your  comynge  what  is  the  mater  ? 
Ranger.    I  wolde  fayne  speke  with  the  god  Jupyter. 
Mery-reporte.    That  wyll  not  be,  but  ye  may  do  thys—  405 

Tell  me  your  mynde.      I  am  an  offycer  of   hys. 
Ranger.    Be  ye  so  ?   Mary,  I  crye  you  marcy. 

Your  maystership  may  say  I  am  homely. 

But  syns  your  mynde  is  to  have  reportyd 

The  cause  wherfore  I  am  now  resortyd,  410 

Pleasyth  your  maystership  it  is  so. 

I  come  for  my-selfe  and  suche  other  mo, 

Rangers  and  kepers  of  certayne  places, 

As  forestes,  parkes,  purlews  and  chasys2 

Where  we  be  chargyd  with  all  maner  game.  415 

1  Scio  (Chios). 

a  Purlieus  are  technically  the  woods  adjacent  to  a  royal  forest ;   a  chase  is  an  unenclosed  part. 


34 

Smale  in  our  profyte  and  great  is  our  blame. 

Alas  !   For  our  wages,  what  be  we  the  nere  ? 

What  is  forty  shyllynges,  or  fyve  marke,  a  yere  ?  B  Hi  b 

Many  tymes  and  oft,  where  we  be  flyttynge, 

We  spende  forty  pens  a  pece  at  a  syttinge.  420 

Now  for  our  vauntage,  whyche  chefely  is  wyiidefale. 

That  is  rvght  nought,  there  bloweth  no  wynde  at  all, 

Whyche  is  the  thynge  wherin  we  fynde  most  grefe, 

And  cause  for  mv  commynge  to  sew  for  relefe, 

That  the  god,  of  pyty,  al  thys  thynge  knowynge,  425 

May  sende  us  good  rage  of  blustryng  and  blowynge, 

And,  yf  I  can  not  get  god  to  do  some  good, 

I  wolde  hyer  the  devyll  to  runne  thorow  the  wood, 

The  rootes  to  turne  up,  the  toppys  to  brynge  under. 

A  mischyefe  upon  them,  and  a  wylde  thunder  !  430 

Mery-reporte.    Very  well  sayd,  I  set  by  your  charyte 

As  mych,  in  a  maner,  as  bv  your  honeste. 

I  shall  set  you  somwhat  in  ease  anone. 

Ye  shall  putte  on  your  cappe,  when  I  am  gone. 

For,  I  se,  ye  care  not  who  wyn  or  lese,  435 

So  ye  maye  fynde  meanys  to  wyn  your  fees. 
Ranger.    Syr,  as  in  that,  ye  speke  as  it  please  ye. 

But  let  me  speke  with  the  god,  yf  it  maye  be. 

I  pray  you,  lette  me  passe  ye. 

Mery-reporte,    Why,  nay,  syr  !   By  the  masse,  ye —  440 

Ranger.    Then  wyll  I  leve  you  evvn  as  I  founde  ye. 
Mery-reporte.    Go  when  ye  wyll.      No  man  here  hath  bounde  ye. 

Here  entretb  the  WATER  MYLLER  and  the  RANGER  gotb  out. 

Water  Myller.    What  the   devyll   shold   skyl,1  though   all   the  world 

were  dum, 

Syns  in  all  our  spekynge  we  never  be  harde  ? 
We  crye  out  for  rayne,  the  devyll  sped  drop  wyll  cum.        445 
We  water  myllers  be  nothynge  in  regarde. 
No  water  have  we  to  grynde  at  anv  stvnt, 
The  wyndc  is  so  stronge  the  rayne  cannot  fall, 

1  What  on  earth  would  it  matter  ? 


The  Play  of  the  W r ether  35 

Whyche  kepeth  our  myldams  as  drye  as  a  flynt. 

We  are  undone,  we  grynde  nothynge  at  all,  450 

The  greter  is  the  pyte,  as  thynketh  me. 

For  what  avayleth  to  eche  man  his  corne, 

Tyll  it  be  grounde  by  such  men  as  we  be  ? 

There  is  the  loss,  yf  we  be  forborne.1 

For,  touchynge  our-selfes,  we  are  but  drudgys,  455 

And  very  beggers  save  onely  our  tole%  B  iv 

Whiche  is  rvght  smale  and  yet  many  grudges 

For  gryste  of  a  busshell  to  gyve  a  quarte  bole.2 

Yet,  were  not  reparacyons,  we  myght  do  wele. 

Our  mylstons,  our  whele  with  her  kogges,  &  our  trindill3  460 

Our  floodgate,  our  mylpooll,  our  water  whele, 

Our  hopper,4  our  extre,6  our  yren  spyndyll, 

In  this  and  mych  more  so  great  is  our  charge, 

That  we  wolde  not  recke  though  no  water  ware, 

Save  onely  it  toucheth  eche  man  so  large,  465 

And  ech  for  our  neyghbour  Cryste  byddeth  us  care. 

Wherfore  my  conscience  hath  prycked  me  hyther, 

In  thys  to  sewe,  accordynge  to  the  cry,6 

For  plente  of  raine  to  the  god  Jupiter 

To  whose  presence  I  wyll  go  evyn  boldely.  470 

Mery-reporte.    Sir,  I  dowt  nothynge  your  audacyte, 

But  I  feare  me  ye  lacke  capacyte, 

For,  yf  ye  were  wyse,  ye  myghte  well  espye, 

How  rudely  ye  erre  from  rewls  of  courtesye. 

What !   ye  come  in  revelynge  and  reheytynge,7  475 

Evyn  as  a  knave  might  go  to  a  beare-beytynge  ! 
Water  Myller.    All  you  bere  recorde  what  favour  I  have  ! 

Herke,  howe  famylyerly  he  calleth  me  knave  ! 

Dowtles  the  gentylman  is  universall ! 

But  marke  thys  lesson,  syr.     You  shulde  never  call  480 

Your  felow  knave,  nor  your  brother  horeson  ; 

For  nought  can  ye  get  by  it,  when  ye  have  done. 

1  dispensed  with,  missed.  6  axletree. 

2  To  give  two  pounds  of  wheat  for  grinding  sixty-four.  6  Jupiter's  proclamation. 
8  wheel.                                       4  feeder  of  the  mill.  7  making  rejoice. 


36  The  Play  of  the  Wether 

Mery-reporte.    Thou  arte  nother  brother  nor  felowe  to  me, 

For  I  am  goddes  servaunt,  mayst  thou  not  se  ? 

Wolde  ye  presume  to  speke  with  the  great  god  ?  485 

Nay,  dyscrecyon  and  you  be  to  farre  od  ! 

Byr  lady,  these  knaves  must  be  tyed  shorter.2 

Syr,  who  let  you  in  ?      Spake  ye  with  the  porter  ? 
Water  My  Her.    Nay,  by  my  trouth,  nor  wyth  no  nother  man. 

Yet  I  saw  you  well,  when  I  fyrst  began.  490 

How  be  it,  so  helpe  me  god  and  holydam,3 

I  toke  you  but  for  a  knave,  as  I  am. 

But,  mary,  now,  syns  I  knowe  what  ye  be, 

I  muste  and  wyll  obey  your  authoryte. 

And  yf  I  maye  not  speke  wyth  Jupiter  495 

I  beseche  you  be  my  solycyter.  B  iv  b 

Mery-reporte.    As  in  that,  I  wyl  be  your  well-wyller. 

I  perceyve  you  be  a  water  myller. 

And  your  hole  desyre,  as  I  take  the  mater, 

Is  plente  of  rayne  for  encres  of  water.  500 

The  let  wherof,  ye  affyrme  determynately, 

Is  onely  the  wynde,  your  mortall  enemy. 
Water  Myller.    Trouth  it  is,  for  it  blowyth  so  alofte, 

We  never  have  rayne,  or,  at  the  most,  not  ofte. 

Wherfore,  I  praye  you,  put  the  god  in  mynde  505 

Clerely  for  ever  to  banysh  the  wynde. 

Here  entretb  the  WYNDE   MYLLER. 

Wynde  Myller.    How  !      Is  all  the  wether  gone  or  I  come  ? 
For  the  passyon  of  god,  helpe  me  to  some. 
I  am  a  wynd-miller,  as  many  mo  be. 

No  wretch  in  wretchydnes  so  wrechyd  as  we  !  510 

The  hole  sorte4  of  my  crafte  be  all  mard  at  onys, 
The  wynde  is  so  weyke  it  sturryth  not  our  stonys, 
Nor  skantely  can  shatter5  the  shyttyn  sayle 
That  hangeth  shatterynge6  at  a  womans  tayle. 

1  too  far  at  variance.  *  assembly. 

2  given  less  freedom.  6  scatter,  blow  about. 
8  the  kingdom  of  saints.  6  flying  apart. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  37 

The  rayne  never  resteth,  so  longe  be  the  showres,  515 

From  tyme  of  begynnyng  tyl  foure  &  twenty  howres ; 

And,  ende  whan  it  shall,  at  nyght  or  at  none, 

An-other  begynneth  as  soone  as  that  is  done. 

Such  revell  of  rayne  ye  knowe  well  inough, 

Destroyeth  the  wynde,  be  it  never  so  rough,  520 

Wherby,  syns  our  myllys  be  come  to  styll  standynge, 

Now  maye  we  wynd-myllers  go  evyn  to  hangynge. 

A  myller !   with  a  moryn  J  and  a  myschyefe  ! 

Who  wolde  be  a  myller  ?     As  good  be  a  thefe  ! 

Yet  in  tyme  past,  when  gryndynge  was  plente,  525 

Who  were  so  lyke  goddys  felows  as  we  ? 

As  faste  as  god  made  corne,  we  myllers  made  meale. 

Whyche  myght  be  best  forborne  2  for  comyn  weale  ? 

But  let  that  gere  passe,  for  I  feare  our  pryde 

Is  cause  of  the  care  whyche  god  doth  us  provyde.  530 

Wherfore  I  submyt  me,  entendynge  to  se 

What  comforte  may  come  by  humylyte. 

And,  now,  at  thys  tyme,  they  sayd  in  the  crye, 

The  god  is  come  downe  to  shape  remedye. 
Mery-reporte.    No  doute,  he  is  here,  even  in  yonder  trone.     C     535 

But  in  your  mater  he  trusteth  me  alone, 

Wherein,  I  do  perceyve  by  your  complaynte, 

Oppressyon  of  rayne  doth  make  the  wynde  so  faynte, 

That  ye  wynde-myllers  be  clene  caste  away. 
Wynde  Myller.    If  Jupyter  helpe  not,  yt  is  as  ye  say.  540 

But,  in  few  wordes  to  tell  you  my  mynde  rounde,3 

Uppon  this  condycyon  I  wolde  be  bounde, 

Day  by  day  to  say  our  ladyes'  sauter,4 

That  in  this  world  were  no  drope  of  water, 

Nor  never  rayne,  but  wynde  contynuall,  545 

Then  shold  we  wynde  myllers  be  lordes  over  all. 
Mery-reporte.    Come  on  and  assay  how  you  twayne  can  agre  — 

A  brother  of  yours,  a  myller  as  ye  be  ! 
Water  Myller.    By  meane  of  our  craft  we  may  be  brothers, 

1  murrain,  plague.  *  roundly,  completely. 

2  dispensed  with.  *  the  psalms  appointed  for  the  Hours  ot"  the  Blessed  Virgin. 


3  8  The  Play  of  the  IF  ether 

But  vvhylcs  we  lyve  shal  we  never  be  lovers.  550 

We  be  of  one  crafte,  but  not  of  one  kynde, 
1  lyve  by  water  and  he  by  the  wynde. 

Here  MERY- REPORT  goth  out. 

And,  syr,  as  ye  desyre  wynde  continual!, 

So  wolde  I  have  rayne  ever-more  to  fall, 

Whyche  two  in  experyence,  ryght  well  ye  se,  555 

Rysjht  sclde,  or  never,  to-gether  can  be. 

for  as  longe  as  the  wynde  rewleth,  yt  is  playne, 

Twenty  to  one  ye  get  no  drop  of  rayne; 

And  when  the  element  is  to  farre  opprest, 

Downe  commeth  the  rayne  and  setteth  the  wynde  at  reste.   560 

By  this,  ye  se,  we  can-not  both  obtayne. 

For  ye  must  lacke  wynde,  or  I  must  lacke  rayne. 

Wherfore  I  thynke  good,  before  this  audiens, 

Eche  for  our  selfe  to  say,  or  we  go  hens  ; 

And  whom  is  thought  weykest,  when  we  have  fynysht,       565 

Leve  of  his  sewt  and  content  to  be  banysht. 
Jlr^nde  Myller.    In  fayth,  agreed  !   but  then,  by  your  lycens, 

Our  mylles  for  a  tyme  shall  hange  in  suspens. 

Syns  water  and  wynde  is  chyefely  our  sewt, 

Whyche  best  may  be  spared  we  woll  fyrst  dyspute.  570 

Wherfore  to  the  see  my  reason  shall  resorte, 

Where  shyppes  by  meane  of  wynd  try  from  port  to  porte, 

From  lande  to  lande,  in  dystaunce  many  a  myle, — 

Great  is  the  passage  and  smale  is  the  whyle. 

So  great  is  the  profile,  as  to  me  doth  seme,  C  i  b      575 

That  no  man's  wysdome  the  welth  can  exteme.1 

'And  syns  the  wynde  is  conveyer  of  all 

Who  but  the  wynde  shulde  have  thanke  above  all  ? 
ll''ater  Myller.    Amytte2  in  this  place  a  tree  here  to  growe, 

And  therat  the  wynde  in  great  rage  to  blowe  ;  580 

When  it  hath  all  blowen,  thys  is  a  clere  case, 

The  tre  removcth  no  here-bred  3  from  hys  place. 

No  more  wolde  the  shyppys,  blow  the  best  it  cowde. 

1  '•steem.  -  admit.  3  hair-breadth. 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  39 

All  though  it  wolde  blow  clowne  both  mast  &  shrowde, 

(Except  the  shyppe  flete  *  uppon  the  water  585 

The  wynde  can  ryght  nought  do,  —  a  playne  matter. 

Yet  maye  ye  on  water,  wythout  any  wynde, 

Row  forth  your  vessell  where  men  wyll  have  her  synde.2 

Nothynge  more  rejoyceth  the  maryner, 

Then  meane  cooles3  of  wynde  and  plente  of  water.  590 

For,  commenly,  the  cause  of  every  wracke 
yls  excesse  of  wynde,  where  water  doth  lacke. 

In  rage  of  these  stormys  the  pcrell  is  suche 

That  better  were  no  wynde  then  so  farre  to  muche. 
Wynde  Myller.    Well,  yf  my  reason  in  thys  may  not  stande,        595 

I  wyll  forsake  the  see  and  lepe  to  lande. 

In  every  chyrche  where  goddys  servyce  is, 

The  organs  beare  brunt  of  halfe  the  quere,4  i-wys. 

Whyche  causeth  the  sounde,  of  water  or  wynde  ? 

More-over  for  wynde  thys  thynge  I  fvnde  600 

P'or  the  most  parte  all  maner  mynstrelsy, 

By  wynde  they  delyver  theyr  sound  chefly, 

Fyll  me  a  bagpype  of  your  water  full, 

As  swetely  shall  it  sounde  as  it  were  stuffyd  with  wull. 
Water  Myller.    On  my  fayth  I  thynke  the  moone  be  at  the  full,   605 

For  frantyke  fansyes  be  then  most  plentefull. 

Which  are  at  the  pryde  of  theyr  sprynge  in  your5  hed, 

So  farre  from  our  matter  he  5  is  now  fled. 

As  for  the  wynde  in  any  instrument, 

It  is  no  percell  of  our  argument,  610 

We  spake  of  wynde  that  comyth  naturally 

And  that  is  wynde  forcyd  artyfycyally, 

Whyche  is  not  to  purpose.      But,  yf  it  were, 

And  water,  in  dede,  ryght  nought  coulde  do  there, 

Yet  I  thynke  organs  no  suche  commodyte,0  C  ii      615 

Wherby  the  water  shulde  banyshed  be. 

And  for  your  bagpypes,  I  take  them  as  nyfuls,7 

Your  mater  is  all  in  fansyes  and  tryfuls. 

1  float.          8  moderate  cool  breezes.         5  Sic  in  all  editions.  "  Indistinguishable  from  trifles. 

2  sent.  *  choir.  6  of  not  sufficient  advantage. 


40  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

JVynde  My  Her.    By  god,  but  ye  shall  not  tryfull  me  of1  so  ! 

Yf  these  thynges  serve  not,  I  wyll  reherse  mo.  620 

And  now  to  mynde  there  is  one  olde  proverbe  come, 
One  bushell  of  marche  dust  is  worth  a  kynges  raunsome, 
What  is  a  hundreth  thousande  bushels  worth  than  ? 

ffater  My  Her.    Not  one  myte,  for  the  thynge  selfe,  to  no  man. 

Il'ynde  Myller.    Why  shall  wynde  every-where  thus  be  objecte  ?   625 
Nay,  in  the  hye  wayes  he  shall  take  effecte, 
Where  as  the  rayne  doth  never  good  but  hurt, 
For  wynde  maketh  but  dust  and  water  maketh  durt. 
Powder  or  syrop,  syrs,  whyche  lycke  ye  best  ? 
Who  lycketh  not  the  tone  maye  lycke  up  the  rest.  630 

But,  sure,  who-so-ever  hath  assayed  such  syppes, 
Had  lever  have  dusty  eyes  then  durty  lyppes. 
And  it  is  sayd,  syns  afore  we  were  borne, 
That  drought  doth  never  make  derth  of  corne. 

O 

And  well  it  is  knowen,  to  the  most  foole  here,  635 

How  rayne  hath  pryced  corne  within  this  vii.  yeare.2 
Jf^ater  Myller.    Syr,  I  pray  the,  spare  me  a  lytyll  season. 
And  I  shall  brevely  conclude  the  wyth  reason. 
Put  case  on  3  somers  daye  wythout  wynde  to  be, 
And  ragyous  wynde  in  wynter  dayes  two  or  thre,  640 

Mych  more  shall  dry  that  one  calme  daye  in  somer, 
Then  shall  those  thre  wyndy  dayes  in  wynter. 
Whom  shall  we  thanke  for  thys,  when  all  is  done  ? 
The  thanke  to  wynde  ?   Nay  !   Thanke  chyefely  the  sone. 
And  so  for  drought,  yf  corne  therby  encres,  645 

The  sone  doth  comfort  and  rype  all  dowtles, 
And  oft  the  wynde  so  leyth  the  corne,  god  wot, 
That  never  after  can  it  rype,  but  rot. 
Yf  drought  toke  place,  as  ye  say,  yet  maye  ye  se, 

1  off. 

2  The  earliest  reference  to  a  dearth  of  corn  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.  which  I  can  find  in 
Holinshed  is  sub  anno    1523,  when  he  states  that  the  price  in  London  was  20  s.  a  quarter,  but 
without  assigning  any  cause.      The   reference   here   is,  I    think,  clearly  to  the  great  rains  of  the 
autumn  of  1527  and  April  and  Ma-/,    i^lX,  of  which  Holinshed  writes  that  they  "caused  great 
floods  and   did   much   harme   namelie  in   corne,  so  that  the  next  yeare  [1528  ?]  it  failed  within 
the  realmc  and  great  dearth  ensued."  3  one. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  41 

Lytell  helpeth  the  wynde  in  thys  commodyte.  650 

But,  now,  syr,  I  deny  your  pryncypyll. 

Yf  drought  ever  were,  it  were  impossybyll 

To  have  ony  grayne,  for,  or  it  can  grow, 

Ye  must  plow  your  lande,  harrow  and  sow, 

Whyche  wyll  not  be,  except  ye  maye  have  rayne      Cii  b     655 

To  temper  the  grounde,  and  after  agayne 

For  spryngynge  and  plumpyng  all  maner  corne 

Yet  muste  ye  have  water,  or  all  is  forlorne. 

Yf  ye  take  water  for  no  commodyte 

Yet  must  ye  take  it  for  thynge  of  necessyte,  660 

For  washynge,  for  skowrynge,  all  fylth  clensynge, 

Where  water  lacketh  what  bestely  beynge  ! 

In  brewyng,  in  bakvnge,  in  dressynge  of  meate, 

Yf  ye  lacke  water,  what  coulde  ye  drynke  or  eate? 

Wythout  water  coulde  lyve  neyther  man  nor  best,  665 

For  water  preservyth  both  moste  and  lest. 

For  water  coulde  I  say  a  thousande  thynges  mo, 

Savynge  as  now  the  tyme  wyll  not  serve  so ; 

And  as  for  that  wynde  that  you  do  sew  fore, 

Is  good  for  your  wynde-myll  and  for  no  more.  670 

Syr,  syth  all  thys  in  experyence  is  tryde, 

I  say  thys  mater  standeth  clere  on  my  syde. 

Myller.    Well,  syns  thys  wyll  not  serve,  I  wyll  alledge  the 

reste. 

Syr,  for  our  myllys  I  saye  myne  is  the  beste. 
My  wynd-myll  shall  grynd  more  corne  in  one  our  675 

Then  thy  water-myll  shall  in  thre  or  foure, 
Ye  more  then  thyne  shulde  in  a  hole  yere, 
Yf  thou  myghtest  have  as  thou  hast  wyshyd  here. 
For  thou  desyrest  to  have  excesse  of  rayne, 
Whych  thyng  to  the  were  the  worst  thou  couldyst  obtayne.  680 
For,  yf  thou  dydyst,  it  were  a  plaync  induccyon  1 
To  make  thyne  owne  desyer  thyne  owne  destruccyon. 
For  in  excesse  of  rayne  at  any  flood 
Your  myllys  must  stande  styll ;   they  can  do  no  good. 

1  preliminary. 


42  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

And  whan  the  wynde  doth  blow  the  uttermost  685 

Our  wyndmylles  walke  a-mayne  in  every  cost. 
For,  as  we  se  the  wynde  in  hys  estate, 
We  moder  x  our-saylys  after  the  same  rate. 
Syns  our  myllys  grynde  so  farre  faster  then  yours, 
And  also  they  may  grynde  all  tymes  and  howrs,  690 

I  say  we  nede  no  water-mylles  at  all, 
For  wyndmylles  be  suffycyent  to  serve  all. 
Jf^ater  Myller.    Thou  spekest  of  all  and  consyderest  not  halfe ! 
In  boste  of  thy  gryste  thou  art  wyse  as  a  calfe  ! 
For,  though  above  us  your  mylles  grynde  farre  faster,  c  Hi  695 
What  helpe  to  those  from  whome  ye  be  myche  farther  ? 
And,  of  two  sortes,  yf  the  tone  shold  be  conserved, 
I  thynke  yt  mete  the  moste  nomber  be  served. 
In  vales  and  weldes,  where  moste  commodyte  is, 
There  is  most  people  :   ye  must  graunte  me  this.  700 

On  hylles  &  downes,  whyche  partes  are  moste  barayne, 
There  muste  be  few  ;  yt  can  no  mo  sustayne. 
I  darre  well  say,  yf  yt  were  tryed  even  now, 
That  there  is  ten  of  us  to  one  of  you. 

And  where  shuld  chyefely  all  necessaryes  be,  705 

But  there  as  people  are  moste  in  plente  ? 
More  reason  that  you  come  vii.  mvle  to  myll 
Then  all  we  of  the  vale  sholde  clvme  the  hyll. 
If  rayne  came  reasonable,  as  I  requyre  yt, 
We  sholde  of  your  wynde  mylles  have  nede  no  whyt.          710 

Entretb  MERY-REPORTE. 

Mery-reporte.    Stop,  folysh  knaves,  for  your  reasonynge  is  suche, 
That  ye  have  resoned  even  ynough  and  to  much. 
I  hard  all  the  wordes  that  ye  both  have  hadde, 
So  helpe  me  god,  the  knaves  be  more  then  madde  ! 
Nother  of  them  both  that  hath  wyt  nor  grace,  7  i  5 

To  perceyve  that  both  myllvs  may  serve  in  place. 
Bctwene  water  and  wynde  there  is  no  suche  let, 
But  eche  myll  may  have  tyme  to  use  his  fet. 

J  moderate,  adjust. 


T/ie  Play  of  the  Wether  43 

Whyche  thynge  I  can  tell  by  experyens  ; 

For  I  have,  of  myne  owne,  not  farre  from  hens,  720 

In  a  corner  to-gether  a  couple  of  myllys, 

Standynge  in  a  marres  ]  betweene  two  hyllvs, 

Not  of  inherytaunce,  but  by  my  wyfe; 

She  is  feofed  in  the  tayle  for  terme  of  her  lyfe, 

The  one  for  wynde,  the  other  for  water.  725 

And  of  them  both,  I  thanke  god,  there  standeth2  nother ; 

For,  in  a  good  hour  be  yt  spoken, 

The  water  gate  is  no  soner  open, 

But  clap,  sayth  the  wyndmyll,  even  strayght  behynde  ! 

There  is  good  spedde,  the  devyll  and  all  they  grynde  !  730 

But  whether  that  the  hopper  be  dusty, 

Or  that  the  mylstonys  be  sumwhat  rusty, 

By  the  mas,  the  meale  is  myschevous  musty  ! 

And  yf  ye  thynke  my  tale  be  not  trusty,  C  iii  h 

I  make  ye  trew  promyse  :   come,  when  ye  lyste,  735 

We  shall  fynde  meane  ye  shall  taste  of  the  gryst. 
Water  Myller.    The  corne  at  receyte  happely  is  not  good. 
Mery-reporte.    There  can  be  no  sweeter,  by  the  sweet  roode  ! 

Another  thynge  yet,  whyche  shall  not  be  cloked, 

My  watermyll  many  tymes  is  choked.  740 

Water  Myller.    So  wyll  she  be,  though  ye  shuld  burste  your  bones, 

Except  ye  be  perfyt  in  settynge  your  stones. 

Fere  not  the  lydger,3  beware  your  ronner. 

Yet  this  for  the  lydger,  or  ye  have  wonne  her, 

Parchaunce  your  lydger  doth  lacke  good  peckyng.  745 

Afery-reporte.    So  sayth  my  wyfe,  &  that  maketh  all  our  checkyng. 4 

She  wolde  have  the  myll  peckt,  peckt,  peckt,  every  day  ! 

But,  by  god,  myllers  muste  pecke  when  they  may  ! 

So  oft  have  we  peckt  that  our  stones  wax  right  thynne, 

And  all  our  other  gerc  not  worth  a  pyn,  750 

For  with  peckynge  and  peckyng  I  have  so  wrought, 

That  I  have  peckt  a  good  peckynge-yron  to  nought. 

1  morass.  2  stands  still. 

3  the  flat  fixed  stone  (or  bed  stone)  over  which  the  turning  stone,  or  runner t  moved. 

4  reviling. 


44  The  Play  of  the  Whether 


How  be  yt,  yf  I  stycke  no  better  tyll  her, 

My  vvyfe  sayth  she  wyll  have  a  new  myller. 

But  let  yt  passe  !   and  now  to  our  mater  !  755 

I  say  my  myllys  lacke  nother  wynde  nor  water ; 

No  more  do  yours,  as  farre  as  nede  doth  requyre. 

But,  syns  ye  can  not  agree,  I  wyll  desyre 

Jupyter  to  set  you  both  in  suche  rest 

As  to  vour  welth  and  his  honour  may  stande  best.  760 

Water  Myller.    I  praye  you  hertely  remember  me. 
IVynde  Myller.    Let  not  me  be  forgoten,  I  beseche  ye. 

Both  MYLLERS  goth  forth. 

Men-reporte.  If  I  remember  you  not  both  alyke 
I  wolde  ye  were  over  the  eares  in  the  dyke. 
Now  be  we  ryd  of  two  knaves  at  one  chaunce.  765 

By  saynte  Thomas,  yt  is  a  knavyshe  ryddaunce. 

The  GENTYLWOMAN  entretb. 

Gentvlwoman.    Now,  good  god,  what  a  foly  is  this  ? 

What  sholde  I  do  where  so  mych  people  is  ? 

I  know  not  how  to  passe  in  to  the  god  now. 

Merv-reporte.    No,  but  ye  know  how  he  may  passe  into  you.       770 
Gentylwoman.    I  pray  you  let  me  in  at  the  backe  syde. 
Mery-reporte.    Ye,  shall  I  so,  and  your  fore  syde  so  wyde  ?  c  iv 

Nay  not  yet ;   but  syns  ye  love  to  be  alone, 

We  twayne  will  into  a  corner  anone. 

But  fyrste,  I  pray  you,  come  your  way  hyther,  775 

And  let  us  twayne  chat  a  whyle  to-gyther. 
Gentylwoman.    Syr,    as  to  you  I  have  lyttell  mater. 

My  commynge  is  to  speke  wyth  Jupiter. 
Mery-reporte.    Stande  ye  styll  a  whyle,  and  I  wyll  go  prove 

Whether  that  the  god  wyll  be  brought  in  love.  780 

My  lorde,  how  nowe  !  loke  uppe  lustely  ! 

Here  is  a  derlynge  come,  by  saynt  Antony. 

And  yf  yt  be  your  pleasure  to  mary, 

Spekc  quyckly  ;   for  she  may  not  tary. 


The  Play  of  the  Whether  45 

In  fayth,  I  thynke  ye  may  wynne  her  anone ;  785 

For  she  wolcle  speke  with  your  lordshyp  alone. 
Jupyter.    Sonne,  that  is  not  the  thynge  at  this  tyme  ment. 

If  her  sewt  concerne  no  cause  of  our  hyther  resorte, 

Sende  her  out  of  place;  but  yf  she  be  bent 

To  that  purpose,  heare  her  and  make  us  reporte.  790 

Mery-reporte.    I  count  women  lost,  yf  we  love  them  not  well, 

For  ye  se  god  loveth  them  never  a  dele. 

Maystres  ye  can  not  speake  wyth  the  god. 
Gentylwoman.    No  !  why  ? 
Mery-reporte.    By  my  fayth,  for  his  lordship  is  ryght  besy. 

Wyth  a  pece  of  worke  that  nedes  must  be  doone ;  795 

Even  now  is  he  makyng  of  a  new  moone. 

He  sayth  your  olde  moones  be  so  farre  tasted,1 

That  all  the  goodnes  of  them  is  wasted, 

Whyche  of  the  great  wete  hath  ben  moste  mater 

For  olde  moones  be  leake  ; 2  they  can  holde  no  water.          800 

But  for  this  new  mone,  I  durst  lay  my  gowne, 

Except  a  few  droppes  at  her  goyng  downe, 

Ye  get  no  rayne  tyll  her  arysynge, 

Wythout  yt  nede,  and  then  no  mans  devysynge 

Coulde  wyshe  the  fashyon  of  rayne  to  be  so  good  ;  805 

Not  gushynge  out  lyke  gutters  of  Noyes  flood, 

But  small  droppes  sprynklyng  softly  on  the  grounde ; 

Though  they  fell  on  a  sponge  they  wold  gyve  no  sounde. 

This    new   moone   shall    make   a   thing   spryng   more    in   this 
while 

Then  a  olde  moone  shal  while  a  man  may  go  a  mile.  810 

By  that  tyme  the  god  hath  all  made  an  ende,  C  iv  b 

Ye  shall  se  how  the  wether  wyll  amende. 

By  saynt  Anne,  he  goeth  to  worke  even  boldely. 

I  thynke  hym  wyse  ynough  ;   for  he  loketh  oldely! 

Wherfore,  maystres,  be  ye  now  of  good  chcre;  815 

For  though  in  his  presens  ye  can  not  appere, 

Tell  me  your  mater  and  let  me  alone. 

Mayhappe  I  will  thynke  on  you  when  you  be  gone. 

1  decayed.  2  be  leaky  ;   misprinted  belyke  In  Kitson. 


46  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

Gentyhvoman.    Forsoth,  the  cause  of  my  commynge  is  this : 

I  am  a  woman  right  fayre,  as  ye  se ;  820 

In  no  creature  more  beauty  then  in  me  is  ; 

And,  svns  I  am  fayre,  fayre  wolde  I  kepe  me, 

But  the  sonne  in  somer  so  sore  doth  burne  me, 

In  wynter  the  wynde  on  every  side.me. 

No  parte  of  the  yere  wote  I  where  to  turne  me,  825 

But  even  in  my  house  am  I  fayne  to  hyde  me. 

And  so  do  all  other  that  beuty  have  ; 

In  whose  name  at  this  tyme,  this  sewt  I  make, 

Besechynge  Jupyter  to  graunt  that  I  crave  ; 

Whyche  is  this,  that  yt  may  please  hym,  for  our  sake,         830 

To  sende  us  wether  close  and  temperate, 

No  sonne-shyne,  no  frost,  nor  no  wynde  to  blow. 

Then  wolde  we  get  *  the  stretes  trym  as  a  parate.2 

Ye  shold  se  how  we  wolde  set  our-selfe  to  show. 
Mery-reporte,    Jet  where  ye  wyll,  I  swere  by  saynt  Quintyne,     835 

Ye  passe  them  all,  both  in  your  owne  conceyt  and  myne. 
Gentylwoman.    If  we  had  wether  to  walke  at  our  pleasure, 

Our  lyves  wolde  be  mery  out  of  measure. 

One  part  of  the  day  for  our  apparellynge 

Another  parte  for  eatynge  and  drynkynge,  840 

And  all  the  reste  in  stretes  to  be  walkynge, 

Or  in  the  house  to  passe  tyme  with  talkynge. 
Mery-reporte.    When  serve  ye  God  ? 
Gentyhvoman.    Who  bosteth  in  vertue  are  but  dawes  3 
Mery-reporte.    Ye  do  the  better,  namely  syns  there  is  no  cause. 

How  spende  ye  the  nyght  ? 
Gentylwoman.  In  daunsynge  and  syngynge  845 

Tyll  mydnyght,  and  then  fall  to  slepynge. 

Mery-reporte.    VVhy,  swete  herte,  by  your  false  fayth,  can  ye  syng  ? 
Gentylwoman.    Nay,  nay,  but  I  love  yt  above  all  thynge. 
Mery-reporte.    Now,  by  my  trouth,  for  the  love  that  I  owe  you,     D  i 

You  shall  here  what  pleasure  I  can  shew  you.  850 

One  songe  have  I  for  you,  suche  as  yt  is, 

And  yf  yt  were  better  ve  should  have  yt,  by  sys.4 

1  or  jet  (1.   835),  strut.  -  parrot.  3  simpletons.  4  [csus. 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  47 

Gentyhvoman.    Mary,  syr,  I  thanke  you  even  hartely. 
Mery-reporte.    Come  on,  syrs  ;   but  now  let  us  synge  lust[e]ly. 

Here  they  singe. 

Gentyhvoman.    Syr,  this  is  well  done;   I  hertely  thanke  you.         855 

Ye  have  done  me  pleasure,  I  make  God  avowe. 

Ones  in  a  nyght  I  long  for  suche  a  fyt ; 

For  longe  tyme  have  I  bene  brought  up  in  yt. 
Mery-reporte.    Oft  tyme  yt  is  sene,  both  in  court  and  towne, 

Longe  be  women  a  bryngyng  up  &  sone  brought  downe.    860 

So  fet *  yt  is,  so  nete  yt  is,  so  nyse  yt  is, 

So  trycke2  yt  is,  so  quvcke  yt  is,  so  wyse  yt  is. 

I  fere  my  self,  excepte  I  may  entreat  her, 

I  am  so  farre  in  love  I  shall  forget  her. 

Now,  good  maystres,  I  pray  you,  let  me  kys  ye—  865 

Gentylwoman.    Kys  me,  quoth  a  !      Why,  nay,  syr,  I  wys  ye. 
Mery-reporte.    What !  yes,  hardely  !      Kys  me  ons  and  no  more. 

I  never  desyred  to  kys  you  before. 

Here  the  LAUNDER  cometb  in. 

Launder.    Why  !   have  ye  alway  kyst  her  behynde  ? 

In  fayth,  good  inough,  yf  yt  be  your  mynde.  870 

And  yf  your  appetvte  serve  you  so  to  do, 

Byr  lady,  I  wolde  ye  had  kyst  myne  ars  to  ! 

Merv-reporte.  To  whom  dost  thou  speake,  foule  hore  ?  canst  thou  tell  ? 
Launder.    Nay,  by  my  trouth  !   I,  syr,  not  very  well ! 

But  by  conjecture  this  ges3  I  have,  875 

That  I  do  speke  to  an  olde  baudy  knave. 

I  saw  you  dally  wilh  your  symper  de  cokket.4 

I  rede  you  beware  she  pyck  not  your  pokket. 

Such  ydyll  huswyfes  do  now  and  than 

Thynke  all  well  wonne  that  they  pyck  from  a  man.  880 

Yet  such  of  some  men  shall  have  more  favour, 

Then  we,  that  for  them  daylv  tovlc  and  labour. 

But  I  trust  the  god  wyll  be  so  indyfferent 

That  she  shall  fayle  some  parte  of  her  entent. 

1  trim.  2  smart.  3  guess.  *  Mile.  Simper  de  Coquette. 


48  The  Play  of  the  Wether 

Mery-reporte.    No  dout  he  wyll  deale  so  gracyously  885 

That  all  folke  shall  be  served  indyfrerently. 

How  be  yt,  I  tell  the  trewth,  my  offyce  is  suche  D  i  k 

That  I  muste  reporte  eche  sewt,  lyttell  or  muche. 

Wherfore,  wyth  the  god  syns  thou  canst  not  speke, 

Trust  me  wyth  thy  sewt,  I  wyll  not  fayle  yt  to  breke.1        890 
Launder.   Then  leave  not  to  muche  to  yonder  gyglet.2 

For  her  desyre  contrary  to  myne  is  set. 

I  herde  by  her  tale  she  wolde  banyshe  the  sonne, 

And  then  were  we  pore  launders  all  undonne. 

Excepte  the  sonne  shyne  that  our  clothes  may  dry,  895 

We  can  do  ryght  nought  in  our  laundrye. 

An  other  maner  losse,  yf  we  sholde  mys, 

Then  of  suche  nycebyceters  3  as  she  is. 
Gentylwoman.    I  thynke  yt  better  that  thou  envy  me, 

Then  I  sholde  stande  at  rewarde4  of  thy  pytte.  900 

It  is  the  guyse  of  such  grose  queues  as  thou  art 

With  such  as  I  am  evermore  to  thwart. 

Bv  cause  that  no  beauty  ye  can  obtayne 

Therfore  ye  have  us  that  be  fayre  in  dysdayne. 
Launder.    When  I  was  as  yonge  as  thou  art  now,  905 

I  was  wythin  lyttel  as  fayre  as  thou, 

And  so  myght  have  kept  me,  yf  I  hadde  wolde, 

And  as  derely  my  youth  I  myght  have  solde 

As  the  tryckest  and  fayrest  of  you  all. 

But  I  feared  parels  5  that  after  myght  fall,  910 

Wherfore  some  busynes  I  dyd  me  provyde, 

Lest  vyce  myght  enter  on  every  syde, 

Whyche  hath  fre  entre  where  ydclnesse  doth  reyne. 

It  is  not  thy  beauty  that  I  dysdeync, 

But  thyne  ydyll  lyfe  that  thou  hast  rehersed,  915 

Whych  any  good  womans  hert  wolde  have  perced. 

For  I  perceyve  in  daunsynge  and  syngynge, 

1  communicate.  '-  wanton. 

8  Cf.  note  on  Roister  Doistcr,  I.  iv.  12.  Mcrygreeke  :  "But  with  whome  is  he  nowe  so 

saaiy  rounayng  yona  r  '  Doug,,  tie  ;  "With  Nobs  nicrhecetur  miserere  fonde"  Explained  by 

Fliigel  as  a  contraction  of  A'CJC/O  quid  dicttur  _  Mistress  '  What's-her-name. '  Gen.  Ed. 

4  At  regard,  i.e.  as  the  object  of.  5  perils. 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  49 

In  eatyng  and  drynkynge  and  thyne  apparellynge, 

Is  all  the  joye,  wherin  thy  herte  is  set. 

But  nought  of  all  this  doth  thyne  owne  labour  get;  920 

For,  haddest  thou  nothyng  but  of  thyne  owne  travayle, 

Thou  myghtest  go  as  naked  as  my  nayle. 

Me  thynke  thou  shuldcst  abhorre  suche  ydylnes 

And  passe  thy  tyme  in  some  honest  besynes ; 

Better  to  lese  some  parte  of  thy  bcaute,  925 

Then  so  ofte  to  jeoberd  all  thyne  honeste. 

But  I  thynke,  rather  then  thou  woldest  so  do,  D  ii 

Thou  haddest  lever  have  us  lyve  ydylly  to. 

And  so,  no  doute,  we  shulde,  yf  thou  myghtest  have 

The  clere  sone  banysht,  as  thou  dost  crave:  930 

Then  were  we  launders  marde  and  unto  the 

Thyne  owne  request  were  smale  commodyte. 

For  of  these  twayne  I  thynke  yt  farre  better 

Thy  face  were  sone-burned,  and  thy  clothis  the  swetter,1 

Then  that  the  sonne  from  shynynge  sholde  be  smytten,      935 

To  kepe  thy  face  fayre  and  thy  smocke  beshytten. 

Syr,  howe  lycke  ye  my  reason  in  her  case  ? 
Mery-reporte.    Such  a  raylynge  hore,  by  the  holy  mas, 

I  never  herde,  in  all  my  lyfe,  tyll  now. 

In  dede  I  love  ryght  well  the  ton  of  you,  940 

But,  or  I  wolde  kepe  you  both,  by  goddes  mother, 

The  devyll  shall  have  the  tone  to  fet2  the  tother. 
Launder.    Promyse  me  to  speke  that  the  sone  may  shyne  bryght, 

And  I  wyll  be  gone  quyckly  for  all  nyght. 
Mery-reporte.    Get  you  both  hens,  I  pray  you  hartely  ;  945 

Your  sewtes  I  perceyve  and  wyll  reporte  them  trewly 

Unto  Jupyter,  at  the  next  leysure, 

And  in  the  same  desyre,  to  know  his  pleasure  ; 

Whyche  knowledge  hadde,  even  as  he  doth  show  yt, 

Feare  ye  not,  tyme  enough,  ye  shall  know  it.  950 

Gentylwoman.    Syr,  yf  ye  medyll,  remember  me  fyrste. 
Launder.    Then  in  this  medlynge  my  parte  shal  be  the  wurst. 
Alery-reporte.    Now,  I  beseche  our  lordc,  the  devyll  the3  burst. 

1  sweeter.  2  fetch.  3  thee. 


50  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

Who  medlyth  wyth  many  I  hold  hym  accurst, 

Thou  hore,  can  I  medyl  wyth  you  both  at  ones.  955 

Here  the  GENTYLWOMAN  gotb  forth. 

Launder.    By  the  mas,  knave,  I  wold  I  had  both  thy  stones 

In  my  purs,  yf  thou  medyl  not  indyfferently, 

That  both  our  maters  in  yssew  may  be  lyckly. 
Mery-reporte.    Many  wordes,  lyttell  mater,  and  to  no  purpose, 

Suche  is  the  effect  that  thou  dost  dysclose,  960 

The  more  ye  byb  1  the  more  ye  babyll, 

The  more  ye  babyll  the  more  ye  fabyll, 

The  more  ye  fabyll  the  more  unstabyll, 

The  more  unstabyll  the  more  unabyll, 

In  any  maner  thynge  to  do  any  good.  965 

No  hurt  though  ye  were  hanged,  by  the  holy  rood  !  D  ii  b 

Launder.    The  les  your  sylence,  the  lesse  your  credence, 

The  les  your  credens  the  les  your  honeste, 

The  les  your  honeste  the  les  your  assystens, 

The  les  your  assystens  the  les  abylyte  970 

In  you  to  do  ought.      Wherfore,  so  god  me  save, 

No  hurte  in  hangynge  such  a  raylynge  knave. 
Mery-reporte.   What  monster  is  this  ?     I  never  harde  none  suche. 

For  loke  how  myche  more  I  have  made  her  to  mychc, 

And  so  farre,  at  lest,  she  hath  made  me  to  lyttell.  975 

Wher  be  ye  Launder  ?      I  thynke  in  some  spytell.2 

Ye  shall  washe  me  no  gere,  for  feare  of  fretynge3 

I  love  no  launders  that  shrynke  my  gere  in  wettynge, 

I  praye  the  go  hens,  and  let  me  be  in  rest. 

I  wyll  do  thyne  crand  as  I  thynke  best.  980 

Launder.    Now  wolde  I  take  my  leve,  yf  I  wyste  how. 

The  lenger  I  lyve  the  more  knave  you. 
Mery-reporte.    The  lenger  thou  lyvest  the  pyte  the  gretter, 

The  soner  thou  be  ryd  the  tydynges  the  better  ! 

Is  not  this  a  swete  offyce  that  I  have,  985 

When  every  drab  shall  prove  me  a  knave  ? 

1  In  The  Play  of  I.wc,  Heywood  writes  of  "  bybbyll  babbyll,  clytter  clatter." 

2  hospital,  lazar- house.  3  rubbing. 


The  Play  of  the  U^ ether  51 

Every  man  knoweth  not  what  goddes  servyce  is, 

Nor  I  my  selfe  knewe  yt  not  before  this. 

I  thynke  goddes  servauntes  may  lyve  holyly, 

But  the  devyls  servauntes  lyve  more  meryly.  990 

I  know  not  what  god  geveth  in  standynge  fees, 

But  the  devyls  servaunts  have  casweltees  1 

A  hundred  tymes  mo  then  goddes  servauntes  have. 

For,  though  ye  be  never  so  starke  a  knave, 

If  ye  lacke  money  the  devyll  wyll  do  no  wurse  995 

But  brynge  you  strayght  to  a-nother  mans  purse. 

Then  wyll  the  devyll  promote  you  here  in  this  world, 

As  unto  suche  ryche  yt  doth  moste  accord. 

Fyrste  pater  noster  qui  es  in  celis, 

And  then  ye  shall  sens2  the  shryfe  wyth  your  helys.  1000 

The  greatest  frende  ye  have  in  felde  or  towne, 

Standynge  a-typ-to,  shall  not  reche  your  crowne. 

The  BOY  cometb  in,  the  lest  that  can_play. 

Boy.    This  same  is  even  he,  by  al  lycklyhod. 
Syr,  I  pray  you,  be  not  you  master  god  ? 

Mery-reporte.    No,  in  good  fayth,  sonne.      But  I  may  say  to  the 

I  am  suche  a  man  that  god  may  not  mysse  me.         D  iii      1006 
Wherfore  with  the  god  yf  thou  wouldest  have  ought  done 
Tell  me  thy  mynde,  and  I  shall  shew  yt  sone. 

Boy.    Forsothe,  syr,  my  mynde  is  thys,  at  few  wordes, 

All  my  pleasure  is  in  catchynge  of  byrdes,  1010 

And  makynge  of  snow-ballys  and  throwyng  the  same  ; 

For  the  whyche  purpose  to  have  set  in  frame,3 

Wyth  my  godfather  god  I  wolde  fayne  have  spoken, 

Desyrynge  hym  to  have  sent  me  by  some  token 

Where  I  myghte  have  had  great  frost  for  my  pytfallys,      1015 

And  plente  of  snow  to  make  my  snow-ballys. 

This  onys4  had,  boyes  lyvis  be  such  as  no  man  leddys. 

O,  to  se  my  snow  ballys  lyght  on  my  felowes  heddys, 

1  casualties,  chance  perquisites. 

2  swing  to  and  fro  with  your  heels  before  the  sheriff,  as  a  censer  is  swung  by  a  thurifcr. 
8  made  arrangements.  4  once. 


52  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

And  to  here  the  byrdes  how  they  flycker  theyr  wynges 

In  the  pytfale  !   I  say  yt  passeth  all  thynges.  1020 

Syr,  yf  ye  be  goddes  servaunt,  or  his  kynsman, 

I  pray  you  helpe  me  in  this  yt  ye  can. 
Mery-reporte,    Alas,  pore  boy,  who  sent  the  hether  ? 
Boy.    A  hundred  boys  that  stode  to-gether, 

Where  they  herde  one  say  in  a  cry  1025 

That  my  godfather,  god  almighty, 

Was  come  from  heven,  by  his  owne  accorde, 

This  nyght  to  suppe  here  wyth  my  lorde,1 

And  farther  he  sayde,  come  whos[o]  2  wull, 

They  shall  sure  have  theyr  bellyes  full  IO3° 

Of  all  wethers  who  lyste  to  crave, 

Eche  sorte  suche  wether  as  they  lyste  to  have. 

And  when  my  felowes  thought  this  wolde  be  had, 

And  saw  me  so  pretv  a  pratelynge  lad, 

Uppon  agrement,  wyth  a  great  noys,  IO35 

"  Sende  lyttell  Dycke,"  cryed  al  the  boys. 

By  whose  assent  I  am  purveyd  3 

To  sew  tor  the  wether  afore  seyd. 

Wherin  I  pray  you  to  be  good,  as  thus, 

To  helpe  that  god  may  geve  yt  us.  1040 

Mery-reporte.    Gyve  boyes  wether,  quoth  a  !    nonny,4  nonny  ! 
Boy.    Yf  god  of  his  wether  wyll  gyve  nonny, 

I  pray  you,  wyll  he  sell  ony  ? 

Or  lend  us  a  bushell  of  snow,  or  twayne, 

And  poynt  us  a  day  to  pay  hym  agayne  ?  IO45 

Mery-reporte.    I  can  not  tell,  for,  by  thys  light,  D  iii  /> 

I  chept 5  not,  nor  borowed,  none  of  hym  this  night. 

But  by  suche  shyfte  as  I  wyll  make 

Thou  shalte  se  soone  what  wave  he  wyll  take. 

1  Cardinal  Wolscy  suggests  himself  as  the  person  most  likely  to  be  thus  referred  to,  but  if  the 
reference  of  1.  636  is  to  the  excessive  rain  of  I  =527-2,8,  Wolsey's  disgrace  followed  it  rather 
too  closely  for  the  phrase  "within  this  seven  yere." 

a  Rastcll  ed.,   'whose.' 

8  provided. 

*  Usually  a  mere  exclamation,  but  here  apparently  as  if  from  wow,  not. 

'"  bargained  for. 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  53 

Boy.    Syr,  I  thanke  you.     Then  I  may  departe.  1050 

The  BOY  gotb  forth. 

Mery-reporte.    Ye,  fare  well,  good  sonne,  wyth  all  my  harte, 
Now  suche  an  other  sorte  1  as  here  hath  bene 
In  all  the  dayes  of  my  lyfe  I  have  not  sene. 
No  sewters  now  but  women,  knavys,  and  boys, 
And  all  theyr  sewtys  are  in  fansyes  and  toys.  1O55 

Yf  that  there  come  no  wyser  after  thys  cry 
I  wyll  to  the  god  and  make  an  ende  quyckely. 
Oyes,2  yf  that  any  knave  here 
Be  wvllynge  to  appere, 

For  wether  fowle  or  clere,  1 060 

Come  in  before  thys  flocke 
And  be  he  hole  or  syckly, 
Come,  shew  hys  mynde  quyckly, 
And  yf  hys  tale  be  not  lyckly3 

Ye  shall  lycke  my  tayle  in  the  nocke.  1065 

All  thys  tyme  I  perceyve  is  spent  in  wast, 
To  wayte  for  mo  sewters  I  se  none  make  hast. 
Wherfore  I  wyll  shew  the  god  all  thys  procys 
And  be  delyvered  of  my  symple4  offys. 

Now,  lorde,  accordynge  to  your  commaundement,  1070 

Attendynge  sewters  I  have  ben  dylygent, 
And,  at  begynnyng  as  your  wyll  was  I  sholde, 
I  come  now  at  ende  to  shewe  what  eche  man  wolde. 
The  fyrst  sewter  before  your  selfe  dyd  appere, 
A  gentylman  desyrynge  wether  clere,  IO75 

Clowdy  nor  mysty,  nor  no  wynde  to  blowe, 
For  hurte  in  hys  huntynge  ;  and  then,  as  ye  know, 
The  marchaunt  sewde,  for  all  of  that  kynde, 
For  wether  clere  and  mesurable  wynde 

As  they  maye  best  bere  theyr  saylys  to  make  spede.  1080 

And  streyght  after  thys  there  came  to  me,  in  dede, 
An  other  man  who  namyd  hym-selfe  a  ranger, 
And  sayd  all  of  hys  crafte  be  far  re  brought  in  daungcr, 

1  assemblage.  2  oyez,  hearken.  8  likely.  4  foolish. 


54  The  Play  of  the  Wether 

For  lacke  of  lyvynge,  whyche  chefely  ys  wynde-fall. 

But  he  playnely  sayth  there  bloweth  no  wynde  at  al,  D  iv  1085 

Wherfore  he  desyreth,  for  encrease  of  theyr  fleesys,1 

Extreme  rage  of  wynde,  trees  to  tere  in  peces. 

Then  came  a  water-myller  and  he  cryed  out 

For  water  and  sayde  the  wynde  was  so  stout 

The  rayne  could  not  fale,  wherfore  he  made  request  1090 

For  plenty  of  rayne,  to  set  the  wynde  at  rest. 

And  then,  syr,  there  came  a  wynde  myller  in, 

Who  sayde  for  the  rayne  he  could  no  wynde  wyn, 

The  water  he  wysht  to  be  banysht  all, 

Besechynge  your  grace  of  wynde  contynuall.  IO95 

Then  came  there  an  other  that  wolde  banysh  all  this 

A  goodly  dame,  an  ydyll  thynge  iwys. 

Wynde,  rayne,  nor  froste,  nor  sonshyne,  wold  she  have, 

But  fayre  close  wether,  her  beautye  to  save. 

Then  came  there  a-nother  that  lyveth  by  laundry,  noo 

Who  muste  have  wether  hote  &  clere  here  clothys  to  dry. 

Then  came  there  a  boy  for  froste  and  snow  contynuall, 

Snow  to  make  snow  ballys  and  frost  for  his  pytfale, 

For  whyche,  god  wote,  he  seweth  full  gredely. 

Your  fyrst  man  wold  have  wether  clere  and  not  wyndy  ;   1 105 

The  seconde  the  same,  save  cooles  2  to  blow  meanly  ; 

The  thyrd  desyred  stormes  and  wynde  moste  extremely  ; 

The  fourth  all  in  water  and  wolde  have  no  wynde ; 

The  fyft  no  water,  but  al  wynde  to  grynde ; 

The  syxt  wold  have  none  of  all  these,  nor  no  bright  son  ;    1 1 10 

The  seventh  extremely  the  hote  son  wold  have  wonne  ; 

The  eyght,  and  the  last,  for  frost  &  snow  he  prayd. 

Byr  lady,  we  shall  take  shame,  I  am  a-frayd  ! 

Who  marketh  in  what  maner  this  sort  is  led 

May  thynke  yt  impossyble  all  to  be  sped.  IIJ5 

This  nomber  is  smale,  there  lacketh  twayne  of  ten, 

And  yet,  by  the  masse,  amonge  ten  thousand  men 

No  one  thynge  could  stande  more  wyde  from  the  tother; 

Not  one  of  theyr  sewtes  agreeth  wyth  an  other. 

1  plunder.  a  Cf.  1.  590,  "  meane  cooles." 


The  Play  of  the  Wether  55 

I  promyse  you,  here  is  a  shrewed  pece  of  warke.  II2O 

This  gere  wyll  trye  wether  ye  be  a  clarke. 

Yf  ye  trust  to  me,  yt  is  a  great  foly  ; 

For  yt  passeth  my  braynes,  by  goddes  body  ! 
Jupyter.    Son,  thou  haste  ben  dylygent  and  done  so  well, 

That  thy  labour  is  ryght  myche  thanke-worthy.     D  iv  b      1125 

But  be  thou  suer  we  nede  no  whyt  thy  counsell, 

For  in  ourselfe  we  have  foresene  remedy, 

Whyche  thou  shalt  se.      But,  fyrste,  departe  hence  quyckly 

To  the  gentylman  and  all  other  sewters  here 

And  commaunde  them  all  before  us  to  appere.  113° 

Mery-reporte.    That  shall  be  no  longer  in  doynge 

Then  I  am  in  commynge  and  goynge. 

MERY-REPORTE  gotb  out. 

Jupyter.  Suche  debate  as  from  above  ye  have  herde, 
Suche  debate  beneth  amonge  your  selfes  ye  se ; 
As  longe  as  heddes  from  temperaunce  be  deferd,  IJ35 

So  longe  the  bodyes  in  dystemperaunce  be, 
This  perceyve  ye  all,  but  none  can  helpe  save  we. 
But  as  we  there  have  made  peace  concordantly, 
So  woll  we  here  now  gyve  you  remedy. 

MERY-REPORTE  and  al  the  sewters  entretb. 

Mery-reporte.    If  I  hadde  caught  them  1140 

Or  ever  I  raught l  them, 

I  wolde  have  taught  them 

To  be  nere  me ; 

Full  dere  have  I  bought  them, 

Lorde,  so  I  sought  them,  1*45 

Yet  have  I  brought  them, 

Suche  as  they  be. 
Gentylman.    Pleaseth  yt  your  majeste,  lorde,  so  yt  is, 

We,  as  your  subjectes  and  humble  sewters  all, 

Accordynge  as  we  here  your  pleasure  is,  1150 

Are  presyd  2  to  your  presens,  beynge  principall 

1  reached.  -  pressed,  have  hastened. 


56  The  Play  of  the  Whether 

Hed  and  governour  of  all  in  every  place, 
Who  joyeth  not  in  your  syght,  no  joy  can  have. 
Wherfore  we  all  commyt  us  to  your  grace 
As  lorde  of  lordes  us  to  peryshe  or  save.  JI55 

Jupyter.    As  longe  as  dyscrecyon  so  well  doth  you  gyde 
Obedyently  to  use  your  dewte, 
Dout  ye  not  we  shall  your  savete  provyde, 
Your  grevys  we  have  harde,  wherfore  we  sent  for  ye 
To  receyve  answere,  eche  man  in  his  degre,  1160 

And  fyrst  to  content  most  reason  yt  is, 
The  fyrste  man  that  sewde,  wherfore  marlce  ye  this, 

Oft  shall  ye  have  the  wether  clere  and  styll 

To  hunt  in  for  recompens  of  your  payne.  D  \ 

Also  you  marchauntes  shall  have  myche  your  wyll.  1165 

For  oft-tymes,  when  no  wynde  on  lande  doth  remayne, 

Yet  on  the  see  pleasaunt  cooles  you  shall  obtayne. 

And  syns  your  huntynge  maye  rest  in  the  nyght, 

Oft  shall  the  wynde  then  ryse,  and  before  daylyght 

It  shall  ratyll  downe  the  wood,  in  suche  case  1170 

That  all  ye  rangers  the  better  lyve  may  ; 

And  ye  water-myllers  shall  obtayne  this  grace 

Many  tymes  the  rayne  to  fall  in  the  valey, 

When  at  the  selfe  tymes  on  hyllys  we  shall  purvey 

Fayre    wether    for    your    wyndmilles,    with    such    coolys    of 

wynde 
As  in  one  instant  both  kyndes  of  mylles  may  grynde.         1176 

And  for  ye  fayre  women,  that  close  wether  wold  have, 

We  shall  provyde  that  ye  may  sufrycyently 

Have  tyme  to  walke  in,  and  your  beauty  save  ; 

And  yet  shall  ye  have,  that  lyveth  by  laundry,  1180 

The  hote  sonne  oft  ynough  your  clothes  to  dry. 

Also  ye,  praty  chylde,  shall  have  both  frost  and  snow, 

Now  markc  this  conclusyon,  we  charge  you  arow.1 

*  in  order. 


57 

Myche  better  have  we  now  devysed  for  ye  all 

Then  ye  all  can  perccve,  or  coude  desyre.  1 185 

Eche  of  you  sewd  to  have  contynuall 

Suche  wether  as  his  crafte  onely  doth  requyre, 

All  wethers  in  all  places  yf  men  all  tymes  myght  hyer, 

Who  could  lyve  by  other  ?   what  is  this  neglygens 

Us  to  atempt  in  suche  inconvenyens.  1190 

Now,  on  the  tother  syde,  yf  we  had  graunted 

The  full  of  some  one  sewt  and  no  mo, 

And  from  all  the  rest  the  wether  had  forbyd, 

Yet  who  so  hadde  obtayned  had  wonne  his  owne  wo. 

There  is  no  one  craft  can  preserve  man  so,  IJ95 

But  by  other  craftes,  of  necessyte, 

He  muste  have  mychc  parte  of  his  commodyte. 

All  to  serve  at  ones  and  one  destroy  a  nother,  D  v  t> 

Or  ellys  to  serve  one  and  destroy  all  the  rest, 

Nother  wyll  we  do  the  tone  nor  the  tother  1200 

But  serve  as  many,  or  as  few,  as  we  thynke  best  •, 

And  where,  or  what  tyme,  to  serve  moste  or  leste, 

The  dyreccyon  of  that  doutles  shall  stande 

Perpetually  in  the  power  of  our  hande. 

Wherfore  we  wyll  the  hole  worlde  to  attende  i  205 

Eche  sorte  on  suche  wether  as  for  them  doth  fall, 

Now  one,  now  other,  as  lyketh  us  to  sende. 

Who  that  hath  yt,  ply  1  it,  and  suer  we  shall 

So  gyde  the  wether  in  course  to  you  all, 

That  eche  wyth  other  ye  shall  hole2  remayne  I2IO 

In  pleasure  and  plentyfull  welth,  ccrtayne. 

Gentylman.    Blessed  was  the  tyme  wherin  we  were  borne, 
Fyrst  for  the  blysfull  chaunce  of  your  godly  presens. 
Next  for  our  sewt  was  there  never  man  beforne 
That  ever  harde  so  excellent  a  semens  1215 

1  use.  2  whole. 


58  The  PI  ay  of  the  IF  ether 

As  your  grace  hath  gevyn  to  us  all  arow, 

Wherin  your  hyghnes  hath  so  bountyfully 

Dystrybuted  my  parte  that  your  grace  shall  know, 

Your  selfe  sooll 1  possessed  of  hertes  of  all  chyvalry. 
Marchaunt.    Lyke-wyse  we  marchauntes  shall  yeld  us  holy,2      I22O 

Onely  to  laude  the  name  of  Jupyter 

As  god  of  all  goddes,  you  to  serve  soolly  ; 

For  of  every  thynge,  I  se,  you  are  norysher. 
Ranger.    No  dout  yt  is  so,  for  so  we  now  fynde ; 

Wherin  your  grace  us  rangers  so  doth  bynde,  1225 

That  we  shall  gyve  you  our  hertes  with  one  accorde, 

For  knowledge  to  know  you  as  our  onely  lorde. 
Water  Myller.    Well,  I  can  no  more,  but  "  for  our  water 

We  shall  geve  your  lordshyp  our  ladyes  sauter." 
ffynde    Alyller.    Myche  have  ye  bounde  us  ;   for,  as  I  be  saved, 

We  have  all  obteyned  better  then  we  craved. 
Gentylwoman.    That  is  trew,  wherfore  your  grace  shal  trewly 

The  hertes  of  such  as  I  am  have  surely. 
Launder.    And  suche  as  I  am,  who  be  as  good  as  you, 

His  hyghness  shall  be  suer  on,  I  make  a  vow.3  I235 

Bov.    Godfather  god,  I  wyll  do  somewhat  for  you  agayne.  D  vi 

By  Cryste,  ye  maye  happe  to  have  a  byrd  or  twayne, 

And  I  promyse  you,  yf  any  snow  come, 

WThen  I  make  my  snow  ballys  ye  shall  have  some. 
Mery-reporte.    God  thanke  your  lordshyp.     Lo,  how  this  is  brought 
to  pas  !  1240 

Syr,  now  shall  ye  have  the  wether  even  as  yt  was. 

Jupyter.    We  nede  no  whyte  our  selfe  any  farther  to  bost, 
For  our  dedes  declare  us  apparauntly. 
Not  onely  here  on  yerth,  in  every  cost, 

But  also  above  in  the  hevynly  company,  I245 

Our  prudens  hath  made  peace  unyversally, 
Whyche  thvnge  we  sey,  recordeth  us  as  pryncypall 
God  and  governour  of  heven,  yerth,  and  all. 

1  solely.  2  wholly.  8  St.  John's  copy  ends. 


The  Play  of  the  IF  ether  59 

Now  unto  that  heven  we  woll  make  retourne, 

When  we  be  gloryfyed  most  tryumphantly,  1250 

Also  we  woll  all  ye  that  on  yerth  sojourne, 

Syns  cause  gyveth  cause  to  knowe  us  your  lord  onely, 

And  nowe  here  to  synge  moste  joyfully, 

Rejoycynge  in  us,  and  in  meane  tyme  we  shall 

Ascende  into  our  trone  celestyall. 


FINIS. 


Printed  by  W.  Rastell. 

'533- 
Cum  pri-vilegio. 


JOHAN   JOHAN 

Previous  Editions  and  the  Present  Text.  —  An  edition  of  "  A  Mery 
Play  between  Johan  Johan,  the  Husbande,  Tyb,  his  Wyfe  and  Syr 
Jhan,  the  Freest,  attributed  to  John  Heywood  I  S^l/'  1  was  printed 
at  the  Chiswick  Press  by  C[harles]  \Vrhittingham  "  from  an  unique 
copy  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum,  Oxford,"  some  time  in  the  first 
half  of  the  present  century.2  The  anonymous  editor  prefaces  it 
with  the  following  brief  u  advertisement  "  :  — 

"  This  is  one  of  the  six  Plays  attributed  by  our  dramatic  biographers  to 
John  Heywood,  author  of  The  Four  P* s  (contained  in  Dodsley's  collection), 
of  '  the  Spider  and  Flie,'  and  of  some  other  poems,  an  account  of  which 
may  be  found  in  the  Third  Volume  of  Warton's  History  of  English  Poetry. 
No  copy  of  this  Mery  Play  appears  to  exist  except  that  in  the  Ashmolcan 
Museum  at  Oxford,  from  which  this  is  a  faithful  reprint.  Exclusive  of  its 
antiquity  and  rarity,  it  is  valuable  as  affording  a  specimen  of  the  earliest  and 
rudest  form  of  our  Comedy  (for  the  Poem  is  shorter,  &  the  number  of  the 
Dramatis  Persons  yet  fewer  than  those  of  the  Four  P's)  &  of  the  liberty/ 
with  which  even  the  Roman  Catholic  authors  of  that  age  felt  themselves) 
authorized  to  treat  the  established  priesthood." 

The  Ashmolean  copy  (now  in  the  Bodleian  Library)  can  no  longer 
be  reckoned  unique,  another  copy  having  been  discovered  in  the 
Pepys  collection  at  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge.  This  copy  has 
been  used  in  correcting  the  Chiswick  Press  text,  and  it  may  be  as 
well  to  mention  that  the  following  changes,  besides  a  good  many 
minor  ones,  have  been  made  on  its  authority,  and  are  not  surrepti- 
tious emendations  of  the  present  editor. 

1  See  Critical  Kssay,  pp.   10,  14. 

2  My  own   copy  has  beneath  the  initials  of  a  former  owner  the  date  "  March  22,  I  8^  "  ; 
that  in   the   British   Museum   is  assigned   to    iXjp-      1    have  seen  it  stated,  luit   I  know  not  or, 
what  authority,  that  the  book  appeared  in  lSi<j. 

~  61  "     ft^ 


62  Johan    "Johan 

1.  4,  mvtbe  for  mucbe  ;  1.  27,  Whan  for  Wkyn  ,•  1.  31,  thwak  for  twak  ; 
1.  89,  enrage  for  engage  ;  1.  94,  But  for  Thou  ;  1.  121,  thoufor  you;  1.  129, 
/v/£  for  .ry/f  ,•  1.  132,  /o  ^o  for  ^/  1.  l  $J  ,  fare  for  face  ;  1.  305,  w  ^AT^  for 
ware  ;  1.  335,  /or  /  for  /,•  1.  471,  ?"<'  for  le  ;  1.  497,  w>'r/^  for  much  ; 
1.  540,  beyond  for  beand  ;  1.  542,  ^  ^e^'  for  /vry,-  1.  552,  beyond  for  <£<?- 
1.  581,  c/  for  ix  ;  1.  604,  7  am  for  rf#/  /. 


In  the  apportionment  of  11.  240—266  between  the  two  speakers, 
mv  predecessor,  like  myself,  though  not  in  the  same  manner,  has 
departed  from  Rastell's  (clearly  erroneous)  arrangement  of  the 
speeches,  but  his  dislike  of  footnotes  has  caused  him  to  omit  any 
mention  of  the  fact.  The  title-page  is  a  representation,  not  a.  fac- 
simile. There  is  no  running  head-line  in  the  original. 

ALFRED  W.  POLLARD. 


CH 

Brtfocnr  Sofyan  Jofyan 


fcwfcy  ^  fgr 
tl)c  prctft 


A   Mery   Play, 


betwene 

JOHAN  JOHAN,  the  husbande.     TYB,  his  wyfey 

& 
_•   SYR  JHAN,  the  preest 


JOHAN  JOHAN,  the  Husbande. 

God  spede  you,  maysters,  everychone, 

Wote  ye  not  whyther  my  wyfe  is  gone  ? 

I  pray  God  the  dyvell  take  her, 

For  all  that  I  do  I  can  not  make  her, 

But  she  wyll  go  a  gaddynge  very  myche  5 

Lyke  an  Antony  pyg T  with  an  olde  wyche, 

Whiche  ledeth  her  about  hyther  and  thyther; 

But,  by  our  lady,  I  wote  not  whyther. 

But,  by  goggis  2  blod,  were  she  come  home 

Unto  this  my  house,  by  our  lady  of  Crome,3  IO 

I  wolde  bete  her  or  that  I  drynke. 

Bete  her,  quotha  ?  yea,  that  she  shall  stynke  ! 

And  at  every  stroke  lay  her  on  the  grounde, 

And  trayne  4  her  by  the  here  5  about  the  house  rounde. 

I  am  evyn  mad  that  I  bete  her  not  nowe,  15 

But  I  shall  rewarde  her,  hard[e]ly,6  well  ynowe ; 

1  The  Neiu  Eng.  Diet,  quotes  from  Fuller's  Worthies  :  "  St.  Anthonie  is  notoriously  known 
for  the  patron  of  hogs,  having  a  pig  for  his  page  in  all  pictures."  2  God's. 

;J  There  are  three  Croomes  in  the  manor  of  Ripple,  Worcestershire,  and  the  church  of 
Ripple  is  dedicated  to  the  B.  Virgin,  but  Nash's  History  of  Worcestershire  says  nothing  of  "Our 
Lady  of  Crome. "  *  drag.  6  hair.  6  assuredly  ;  text  'hardly.' 

65 


66  yo/ian    "Johan 


There  is  never  a  wyfe  betwene  heven  and  hell 
Whiche  was  ever  beten  halfe  so  well. 

Beten,  quotha  ?  yea,  but  what  and  she  therof  dye  ? 
Then  I  may  chaunce  to  be  hanged  shortly.  2O 

And  whan  I  have  beten  her  tyll  she  smoke, 
And  gyven  her  many  a  c.1  stroke, 
Thynke  ye  that  she  wvll  amende  yet  ? 
Nay,  by  our  lady,  the  devyll  spede  whyt  !  2 
Therfore  I  wyll  not  bete  her  at  all.  25 

And  shall  I  not  bete  her  r  no  shall  ?  3 

Whan  she  offendeth  and  doth  a-mys,  A  i  l> 

And  kepeth  not  her  house,  as  her  duetie  is  ? 
Shall  I  not  bete  her,  if  she  do  so  ? 

Yes,  by  cokkis  4  blood,  that  shall  I  do  -,  30 

I  shall  bete  her  and  thwak  her,  I  trow, 
That  she  shall  beshyte  the  house  for  very  wo. 

But  yet  I  thynk  what  my  neybour  wyll  say  than, 
He  wyll  say  thus  :   "  Whom  chydest  thou,  Johan  Johan  ?  " 
"  Mary,"  will  I  say  !   "  I  chyde  my  curst  wyfe,  35 

The  veryest  drab  that  ever  bare  lyfe, 
Whiche  doth  nothying  but  go  and  come, 
And  I  can  not  make  her  kepe  her  at  home." 
Than  I  thynke  he  wyll  say  by  and  by,5 

"  Walke  her  cote,6  Johan  Johan,  and  bete  her  hardely."        40 
But  than  unto  hym  myn  answere  shal  be, 
"  The  more  I  bete  her  the  worse  is  she  : 
And  wors  and  wors  make  her  I  shall." 

He  wyll  say  than,  "  bete  her  not  at  all." 

"And  why  ?  "   shall  I  say,  "this  wolde  be  wyst,7  45 

Is  she  not  myne  to  chastice  as  I  Ivst  ?  " 

But  this  is  another  poynt  worst  of  all, 
The  folkis  wyll  mocke  me  whan  they  here  me  brail  ;  8 

1  hundred.  -  the  devil  a  bit. 

8  shall  I  not?      For  this  curious  elliptical  construction  cf.  1.   624,  "And  had  ye  no  nie.it  , 
Johan  Johan  ?  no  had?"      See  also  Udall's  R.  D.,  I.  iv.   32. 

*  God's.  ^  immediately. 

6  dust  her  jacket,  beat  her.      To  walk  —  to  full  cloth. 

7  This  question  must  be  answered.  8  scold. 


"Johan    °Johan  67 

But  for  all  that,  shall  I  let 1  therfore 

To  chastyce  my  wyfe  ever  the  more,  50 

And  to  make  her  at  home  for  to  tary  ? 

Is  not  that  well  done  ?  yes,  by  Saynt  Mary, 

That  is  a  poynt2  of  an  honest  man 

For  to  bete  his  wyfe  well  nowe  and  than. 

Therfore  I  shall  bete  her,  have  ye  no  drede  !  55 

And  I  ought  to  bete  her,  tyll  she  be  starke  dede. 
And  why  ?  by  God,  bicause  it  is  my  pleasure, 
And  if  I  shulde  suff're  her,  I  make  you  sure, 
Nought  shulde  prevayle3  me,  nother  staffe  nor  waster,4 
Within  a  whyle  she  wolde  be  my  mayster.  60 

Therfore  I  shall  bete  her  by  cokkes  mother, 
Both  on  the  tone  syde  and  on  the  tother, 
Before  and  behynde ;   nought  shall  be  her  bote,6 
From  the  top  of  the  heed  to  the  sole  of  the  fote. 

But,  masters,  for  Goddis  sake,  do  not  entrete  65 

For  her,  whan  that  she  shal  be  bete ; 
But,  for  Goddis  passion,  let  me  alone, 
And  I  shall  thwak  her  that  she  shall  grone  : 
Wherfore  I  beseche  you,  and  hartely  you  pray, 
And  I  beseche  you  say  me  not  nay,  70 

But  that  I  may  beate  her  for  this  ones  ;  A  ii 

And  I  shall  beate  her,  by  cokkes  bones, 
That  she  shall  stynke  lyke  a  pole-kat ; 
But  yet,  by  goggis  body,  that  nede  nat, 

For  she  wyll  stynke  without  any  betyng,  75 

For  every  nyght  ones  she  gyveth  me  an  hetyng ; 
From  her  issueth  suche  a  stynkyng  smoke, 
That  the  savour  therof  almost  doth  me  choke. 
But  I  shall  bete  her  nowe,  without  fayle  ; 

I  shall  bete  her  toppe  and  tayle,  80 

Heed,  shulders,  armes,  legges,  and  all, 
I  shall  bete  her,  I  trowe  that  I  shall ; 
And,  by  goggis  boddy,  I  tell  you  trcwe, 
I  shall  bete  her  tyll  she  be  blacke  and  blewe. 

1  tease.  a  characteristic.  3  avail.  4  i  U.!LVI.  6  remedy. 


68  Johan 


But  where  the  dyvell  trowe  ye  she  is  gon  ?  85 

I  holde  a  noble  1  she  is  with  Syr  Jhan  ; 
I  fere  I  am  begyled  alway, 
But  yet  in  faith  I  hope  well  nay  ; 
Yet  I  almost  enrage  that  I  ne  can 

Se  the  beha\  our  of  our  gentylwoman.  90 

And  yet,  I  thynke,  thyther  as  she  doth  go 
Many  an  honest  wyfe  goth  thyther  also, 
For  to  make  some  pastyme  and  sporte. 
But  than  my  wyfe  so  ofte  doth  thyther  resorte 
That  I  fere  she  wyll  make  me  weare  a  fether.  95 

But  yet  I  nede  not  for  to  fere  nether, 
For  he  is  her  gossyp,  that  is  he. 

But  abyde  a  whyle,  yet  let  me  se, 
Where  the  dyvell  hath  our  gyssypry  2  begon  ? 
My  wyfe  had  never  chylde,  daughter  nor  son.  100 

Nowe  if  I  forbede  her  that  she  go  no  more, 
Yet  wvll  she  go  as  she  dyd  before, 
Or  els  wyll  she  chuse  some  other  place  ; 
And  then  the  matter  is  in  as  yll  case. 

But  in  fayth  all  these  wordes  be  in  wast,  105 

For  I  thynke  the  matter  is  done  and  past  ; 
And  whan  she  cometh  home  she  wyll  begyn  to  chyde, 
But  she  shall  have  her  payment  styk  by  her  syde  ; 
For  I  shall  order  her,  for  all  her  brawlyng, 
That  she  shall  repent  to  go  a  catter-wawlyng.3  110 

[Enter  TYB.] 

Tyb.    Why,  whom  wylt  thou  beate,  I  say,  thou  knave  ? 

Johan.    Who,  I,  Tyb  ?    none,  so  God  me  save. 

Tyb.    Yes,  I  harde  the  say  thou  woldest  one  bete. 

Johan.    Mary,  wyfe,  it  was  stokfysshc4  in  Temmes  Strete, 

Whiche  wyll  be  good  meate  agaynst  Lent.  A  ii  h      115 

Why,  Tyb,  what  haddcst  thou  thought  that  I  had  ment  ? 

1  wager  6s.  8</.     Cf.  Udall,  R.  D.,  I.  iii.  27. 

-  the  relation  of  a  child's  sponsors  at  baptism  to  his  parents.          3  go  a  "love  "-making. 

4  tish  salted  so  hard  that  it  had  to  he  softened  by  beating  before  cooking. 


Johan   Johan  69 

Tyb.    Mary,  me  thought  I  harde  the  bawlyng. 

Wilt  thou  never  leve  this  wawlyng  ? 1 

Howe  the  dyvell  dost  thou  thy  selfe  behave  ? 

Shall  we  ever  have  this  worke,  thou  knave  ?  1 20 

Johan.    What !  wyfe,  how  sayst  thou  ?  was  it  well  gest  of  me 

That  thou  woldest  be  come  home  in  safete, 

As  sone  as  I  had  kendled  a  fyre  ? 

Come  warme  the,  swete  Tyb,  I  the  requyre. 
Tyb.    O,  Johan  Johan,  I  am  afrayd,  by  this  lyght,  I  25 

That  I  shalbe  sore  syk  this  nyght. 
Jokan  [aside].    By  cokkis  soule,  nowe,  I  dare  lay  a  swan 

That  she  comes  nowe  streyght  fro  Syr  Johan  ; 

For  ever  whan  she  hath  fatched  of  hym  a  lyk, 

Than  she  comes  home,  and  sayth  she  is  syk.  130 

Tyb.    What  sayst  thou  ? 
Johan.  Mary,  I  say, 

It  is  mete  for  a  woman  to  go  play 

Abrode  in  the  towne  for  an  houre  or  two. 
Tyb.    Well,  gentylman,  go  to,  go  to. 

Johan.    Well,  let  us  have  no  more  debate.  135 

Tyb  [aside] .    If  he  do  not  fyght,  chyde,  and  rate, 

Braule  and  fare  as  one  that  were  frantyke, 

There  is  nothyng  that  may  hym  lyke.2 
Johan  [aside]  .    If  that  the  parysshe  preest,  Syr  Jhan, 

Dyd  not  se  her  nowe  and  than, 

And  gyve  her  absolution  upon  a  bed, 

For  wo  and  payne  she  wolde  sone  be  deed. 
Tyb.    For  goddis  sake,  Johan  Johan,  do  the  not  displease, 

Many  a  tyme  I  am  yll  at  ease. 

What  thynkest  nowe,  am  not  I  somwhat  syk?  145 

Johan  [aside],    Nowe  wolde  to  God,  and  swete  Saynt  Dyryk,3 

1  literally,  cat-calling. 

2  Tyb's  'aside'  perhaps  only  means  "if  he  is  not  scolding  nothing  can  please  him,"  i.e.  he 
likes  scolding  better  than  anything  else.      But  Tyb  is  at  present  half-afraid,  and  it  is  at  least 
possible  that  she  means  "if  I  haven't  set  him  scolding  this  time,  no  occasion   for  being  angry 
will  content  him."  , 

3  This  saint  is  not  mentioned  by  the  Bollandists  ;  the  name  may  be  a  contraction  tor  one  of 
the  four  St.  Theodorics. 


70 

That  thou  warte  in  the  water  up  to  the  throte, 

Or  in  a  burnyng  oven  red  hote, 

To  se  an  I  wolde  pull  the  out. 
Tyb.    Nowe,  Johan  Johan,  to  put  the  out  of  dout,  150 

Imagyn  thou  where  that  1  was 

Before  I  came  home. 
Johan.  My  percase,1 

Thou  wast  prayenge  in  the  Churche  of  Poules 

Upon  thy  knees  for  all  Chrysten  soules. 
Tyb.    Nay. 
Johan.  Than  if  thou  wast  not  so  holy,  155 

Shewe  me  where  thou  wast,  and  make  no  lye  ? 
Tyb.    Truely,  Johan  Johan,  we  made  a  pye, 

I  and  my  gossyp  Margery, 

And  our  gossyp  the  preest,  Syr  Jhan,  A  ill 

And  my  neybours  yongest  doughter  An  ;  160 

The  preest  payde  for  the  stufFe  and  the  makyng, 

And  Margery  she  payde  for  the  bakyng. 
Johan.    By  cokkis  lylly  woundis,2  that  same  is  she, 

That  is  the  most  bawde  hens  to  Coventre. 
Tyb.    What  say  you  ? 
Johan.  Mary,  answere  me  to  this  :  165 

Is  not  Syr  Johan  a  good  man  ? 

Tyb.  Yes,  that  he  is. 

Johan.    Ha,  Tyb,  if  I  shulde  not  greve  the, 

I  have  somewhat  wherof  I  wolde  meve  the.3 
Tyb.    Well,  husbande,  nowe  I  do  conject 

That  thou  hast  me  somewhat  in  suspect;  170 

But,  by  my  soule,  I  never  go  to  Syr  Johan 

But  I  fynde  hym  lyke  an  holy  man, 

For  eyther  he  is  sayenge  his  devotion, 

Or  els  he  is  goynge  in  processyon. 
Johan  [aside~\.    Yea,  rounde  about  the  bed  doth  he  go,  175 

You  two  together,  and  no  mo  ; 

And  for  to  fynysshe  the  procession, 

He  lepeth  up  and  thou  lyest  downe. 

1  guess.  2  God's  little  wounds  ;   cf.  1.  648.  'consult,  question  thee. 


Johan   Jo/ian  7 1 

Tyb.    What  sayst  thou  ? 

Johan.  Mary,  I  say  he  doth  well, 

For  so  ought  a  shepherde  to  do,  as  I  harde  tell,  180 

For  the  salvation  of  all  his  folde. 
Tyb.    Johan  Johan  ! 

\  Johan.]  What  is  it  that  thou  wolde? 

fyb.    By  my  soule  I  love  thee  too  too,1 

And  I  shall  tell  the,  or  I  further  go, 

The  pye  that  was  made,  I  have  it  nowe  here,  185 

And  therwith  I  trust  we  shall  make  good  chere. 
Johan.    By  kokkis  body  that  is  very  happy. 
Tyb.    But  wotest  who  gave  it  ? 

"Johan.  What  the  dyvel  rek  I  ? 

Tyb.    By  my  fayth,  and  I  shall  say  trewe,  than 

The  Dyvell  take  me,  and  it  were  not  Syr  Johan.  190 

Johan.    O  holde  the  peas,  wyfe,  and  swere  no  more, 

But  I  beshrewe  both  your  hartes  therfore. 
Tyb.    Yet  peradventure,  thou  hast  suspection 

Of  that  was  never  thought  nor  done. 
Johan.    Tusshe,  wife,  let  all  suche  matters  be,  195 

I  love  thee  well,  though  thou  love  not  me  : 

But  this  pye  doth  nowe  catche  harme, 

Let  us  set  it  upon  the  harth  to  warme. 
Tyb.    Than  let  us  eate  it  as  fast  as  we  can. 

But  bycause  Syr  Jhan  is  so  honest  a  man,  20O 

I  wolde  that  he  shulde  therof  eate  his  part. 
Johan.    That  were  reason,  I  thee  ensure. 
Tyb.    Than,  syns  that  it  is  thy  pleasure, 

I  pray  the  than  go  to  hym  ryght,  A  iii  f> 

And  pray  hym  come  sup  with  us  to  nyght.  205 

Jhan  [aside]  .   Shall  he  cum  hyther  ?  by  kokkis  soule  I  was  a-curst 

Whan  that  I  graunted  to  that  worde  furst ! 

But  syns  I  have  sayd  it,  I  dare  not  say  nay, 

For  than  my  wyfe  and  1  shulde  make  a  fray  ; 

But  whan  he  is  come,  I  swere  by  goddis  mother,  210 

I  wold  gyve  the  dyvell  the  tone'2  to  cary  away  the  tother. 

1  excessively.  2  the  one. 


72  yohan   Johan 


Tyb.    What  sayst  ? 

Johan.  Mary,  he  is  my  curate,  I  say, 

My  confessour  and  my  frende  alway, 

Therfore  go  thou  and  seke  hym  by  and  by, 

And  tyll  thou  come  agayne,  I  wyll  kepe  the  pye.  215 

Tyb.    Shall  I  go  for  him  ?   nay,  I  shrewe  me  than  ! 

Go  thou,  and  seke,  as  fast  as  thou  can, 

And  tell  hym  it. 
Johan.  Shall  I  do  so  ? 

In  fayth,  it  is  not  mete  for  me  to  go. 

Tyb.    But  thou  shake  go  tell  hym,  for  all  that.  22O 

'Johan.    Than  shall  I  tell  hym,  wotest  [thou]  what  ? 

That  thou  desyrest  hym  to  come  make  some  chere. 
Tyb.    Nay,  that  thou  desyrest  hym  to  come  sup  here. 
Johan.    Nay,  by  the  rode,  wyfe,  thou  shalt  have  the  worshyp 

And  the  thankes  of  thy  gest,  that  is  thy  gossyp.  225 

Tyb  [aside\  .    Full  ofte  I  se  my  husbande  wyll  me  rate, 

For  this  hether  commyng  of  our  gentyll  curate. 
Johan.    What  sayst,  Tyb  ?   let  me  here  that  agayne. 
Tyb.    Mary,  I  perceyve  very  playne 

That  thou  hast  Syr  Johan  somwhat  in  suspect  ;  230 

But  by  my  soule,  as  far  as  I  conject, 

He  is  vertuouse  and  full  of  charyte. 
Johan  [aside]  .    In  fayth,  all  the  towne  knoweth  better,  that  he 

Is  a  hore-monger,  a  haunter  of  the  stewes, 

An  ypocrite,  a  knave,  that  all  men  refuse  ;  235 

A  Iyer,  a  wretche,  a  maker  of  stryfe, 

Better  than  they  knowe  that  thou  art  my  good  wyfe. 
Tyb.    What  is  that,  that  thou  hast  sayde  ? 
Johan.    Mary,  I  wolde  have  the  table  set  and  layde, 

In  this  place  or  that,  I  care  not  whether.  240 

Tyb.    Than  go  to,  brynge  the  trestels  l  hyther. 

Abyde2  a  whyle,  let  me  put  of  my  gown! 

But  yet  I  am  afrayde  to  lay  it  down, 

1  The  stands  on  which  the  '  board  '  of  the  table  was  fixed  when  needed.  . 

2  This  line  is  attributed  in  Rastell's  edition  to  Johan,  the  next  attribution  being  at  1.  252,  also 
to  Johan.     Lines  258,   259  are  given  to  Tyb,   11.    260-262  to  Johan,  1.    263   a  to  Johan, 
11.  263  £-266  to  Tyb. 


Johan 


73 


For  I  fere  it  shal  be  sone  stolen. 

EJohan.^     And  yet  it  may  lye  safe  ynough  unstolen.  245 

Tyb.~\     It  may  lye  well  here,  and  I  lyst,  — 

But,  by  cokkis  soule,  here  hath  a  dogge  pyst  ; 

And  if  I  shulde  lay  it  on  the  harth  bare,  A  iv 

It  myght  hap  to  be  burned,  or  I  were  ware, 

Therfore  I  pray  you,1  take  ye  the  payne  250 

To  kepe  my  gowne  tyll  I  come  agayne. 
But  yet  he  shall  not  have  it,  by  my  fay, 

He  is  so  nere  the  dore,  he  myght  ron  away  ; 

But  bycause  that  ye  be  trusty  and  sure 

Ye  shall  kepe  it,  and  it  be  your  pleasure;  255 

And  bycause  it  is  arrayde2  at  the  skyrt, 

Whyle  ye  do  nothyng,  skrape  of  the  dyrt. 
[Jihan.~\     Lo,  nowe  am  I  redy  to  go  to  Syr  Jhan, 

And  byd  hym  come  as  fast  as  he  can. 
[7V/>.]    Ye,  do  so  without  ony  taryeng.  260 

But  I  say,  harke  !   thou  hast  forgot  one  thyng  ; 

Set  up  the  table,  and  that  by  and  by.3 

Nowe  go  thy  ways. 
[Jthan.]  I  go  shortly  ;  4 

But  se  your  candelstykkis  be  not  out  of  the  way. 
Tyb.    Come  agayn,  and  lay  the  table  I  say  ;  265 

What  !   me  thynkkis,  ye  have  sone  don  ! 
Johcji.    Nowe  I  pray  God  that  his  malediction 

Lyght  on  my  wyfe,  and  on  the  baulde5  preest. 
Tyb.   Nowe  go  thy  ways  and  hye  the  !   seest  ? 
Johan.    I  pray  to  Christ,  if  my  wyshe  be  no  synne,  270 

That  the  preest  may  breke  his  neck,  whan  he  comes  in. 
Tyb.    Now  cum  again. 

Johan  What  a  myschefe  wylt  thou,  fole  ! 

Tyb.    Mary,  I  say,  brynge  hether  yender  stole. 

1  'I  pay  you,'  etc.,  said  to  one  of  the  spectators,  whom  she  next  pretends  to  mistrust,  turn- 
ing at  1.  254  to  another  one.  2  dirtied. 

3  Fix  4ie  board  on  the  trestles,  and  that  at  once. 

4  263,  etc.      In  the  French    Parse  of  Fernet  yui  i>a  au  yin  there  are  similar  false  starts  and 
returnings,  but  in  that  case  Fernet  keeps  coming  back  to  watch  his  wife  and  her  lover. 

6  bald,  ihaven,  not  "bold." 


74  Johan   Johan 

Johan.    Nowe  go  to,  a  lytteli  wolde  make  me 

For  to  say  thus,  a  vengaunce  take  the  !  275 

Tyb.    Nowe  go  to  hym,  and  tell  hym  playn, 

That  tyll  thou  brynge  hym,  thou  wylt  not  come  agayn. 
Johan.    This  pye  doth  borne  here  as  it  doth  stande. 
T\b.    Go,  washe  me  these  two  cuppes  in  my  hande. 
Johan.    I  go,  with  a  myschyefe  lyght  on  thy  face  !  280 

Tyb.    Go,  and  byd  hym  hye  hym  a  pace, 

And  the  whyle  I  shall  all  thynges  amende. 
Johan.    This  pye  burneth  here  at  this  ende. 

Understandest  thou  ? 

Tyb.  Go  thy  ways,  I  say. 

Johan.    I  wyll  go  nowe,  as  fast  as  I  may.  285 

Tyb.    How,  come  ones  agayne  :   I  had  forgot ; 

Loke,  and  there  be  ony  ale  in  the  pot. 
Johan.    Nowe  a  vengaunce  and  a  very  myschyefe 

Lyght  on  the  pylde  1  preest,  and  on  my  wyfe, 

On  the  pot,  the  ale,  and  on  the  table,  290 

The  candyll,  the  pye,  and  all  the  rable, 

On  the  trystels,  and  on  the  stole ;  /.  iv  b 

It  is  moche  ado  to  please  a  curst  fole. 
Tyb.    Go  thy  ways  nowe,  and  tary  no  more, 

For  I  am  a  hungred  very  sore.  295 

Johan.    Mary,  I  go. 
Tyb.  But  come  ones  agayne  yet; 

Brynge  hyther  that  breade,  lest  I  forget  it. 
Johan.    I-wys  it  were  tyme  for  to  torne 

The  pye,  for  y-wys  it  doth  borne. 
Tyb.    Lorde  !   how  my  husbande  nowe  doth  patter,  300 

And  of  the  pye  styl  doth  clatter. 

Go  nowe,  and  byd  hym  come  away  ; 

I  have  byd  the  an  hundred  tymes  to  day. 
Johan.    I  wyll  not  gyve  a  strawe,  I  tell  you  playne, 

If  that  the  pye  waxe  cold  agayne.  305 

Tyb.    What  !   art  thou  not  gone  yet  out  of  this  place  ? 

I  had  went,2  thou  haddest  ben  come  agayn  in  the  space  : 

1  shorn.  2  thought. 


75 

But,  by  cokkis  soule,  and  I  shulde  do  the  ryght, 
I  shulde  breke  thy  knaves  heed  to  nyght. 

yohan.    Nay,  than  if  my  wyfe  be  set  a  chydyng,  310 

It  is  tyme  for  me  to  go  at  her  byddyng. 
There  is  a  proverbe,  whiche  trewe  nowe  preveth, 
He  must  nedes  go  that  the  dyvell  dryveth. 

[He  goes  to  the  Priest's  house. ,] 
How  mayster  curate,  may  I  come  in 
At  your  chamber  dore,  without  ony  syn.  315 

SYR  JHAN  the  Freest. 

Who  is  there  nowe  that  wolde  have  me  ? 

What !   Johan  Johan  !   what  newes  with  the  ? 
Johan.    Mary,  Syr,  to  tell  you  shortly, 

My  wyfe  and  I  pray  you  hartely, 

And  eke  desyre  you  wyth  all  our  myght,  320 

That  ye  wolde  come  and  sup  with  us  to  nyght. 
Syr  y.    Ye  must  pardon  me,  in  fayth  I  ne  can. 
yohan.    Yes,  I  desyre  you,  good  Syr  Johan, 

Take  payne  this  ones  ;  and,  yet  at  the  lest, 

If  ye  wyll  do  nought  at  my  request,  325 

Yet  do  somewhat  for  the  love  of  my  wyfe. 
Syr  y.    I  wyll  not  go,  for  makyng  of  stryfe. 

But  I  shall  tell  the  what  thou  shake  do, 

Thou  shalt  tary  and  sup  with  me,  or  thou  go. 
yohan.    Wyll  ye  not  go  than  ?   why  so  ?  330 

I  pray  you  tell  me,  is  there  any  dysdayne, 

Or  ony  enmyte,  betwene  you  twayne  ? 
Syr  y.    In  fayth  to  tell  the,  betwene  the  and  me, 

She  is  as  wyse  a  woman  as  any  may  be; 

I  know  it  well ;   for  I  have  had  the  charge  B  i      335 

Of  her  soule,  and  serchyd  her  conscyens  at  large. 

I  never  knew  her  but  honest  and  wyse, 

Without  any  yvyll,  or  any  vyce, 

Save  one  faut,  I  know  in  her  no  more, 

And  because  I  rebuke  her,  now  and  then,  therfore,  340 

She  is  angre  with  me,  and  hath  me  in  hate; 


j6  Johan    Johan 

And  yet  that  that  I  do,  I  do  it  for  your  welth. 
Johan.    Now  God  yeld  it  vow,  god  master  curate, 

And  as  ye  do,  so  send  you  your  helth, 

Ywys  I  am  bound  to  you  a  plesure.  345 

Syr  y.    Yet  thou  thynkyst  amys,  peradventure, 

That  of  her  body  she  shuld  not  be  a  good  woman, 

But  I  shall  tell  the  what  I  have  done,  Johan, 

For  that  matter ;  she  and  I  be  somtyme  aloft, 

And  I  do  lye  uppon  her,  many  a  tyme  and  oft,  350 

To  prove  her,  yet  could  I  never  espy 

That  ever  any  dyd  worse  with  her  than  I. 
'Johan.    Syr,  that  is  the  lest  care  I  have  of  nyne, 

Thankyd  be  God,  and  your  good  doctryne  ; 

But  yf  it  please  you,  tell  me  the  matter,  355 

And  the  debate  *  betwene  you  and  her. 
Syr  J.    I  shall  tell  the,  but  thou  must  kepe  secret. 
Joban.    As  for  that,  Syr,  I  shall  not  let. 
Syr  y.    I  shall  tell  the  now  the  matter  playn,  — 

She  is  angry  with  me  and  hath  me  in  dysdayn  360 

Because  that  I  do  her  oft  intyce 

To  do  some  penaunce,  after  myne  advyse, 

Because  she  wyll  never  leve  her  wrawlyng,2 

But  alway  with  the  she  is  chydyng  and  brawlyng; 

And  therfore  I  knowe,  she  hatyth  [my]  presens.  365 

'Johan.    Nay,  in  good  feyth,  savyng  your  reverens. 
Syr  jf.    I  know  very  well,  she  hath  me  in  hate. 
Johan.    Nay,  I  dare  swere  for  her,  master  curate  : 

\_Ande\   But,  was  I  not  a  very  knave  ? 

I  thought  surely,  so  god  me  save,  370 

That  he  had  lovyd  my  wyfe,  for  to  deseyve  me, 

And  now  he  quytyth  hym-self ;   and  here  I  se 

He  doth  as  much  as  he  may,  for  his  lyfe, 

To  styn  [te]  3  the  debate  betwene  me  and  my  wyfe. 
Syr  J.    If  ever  she  dyd,  or  though  [t]4  me  any  yll,  3)5 

Now  I  forgyvc  her  with  rn[y]5  fre  wyll  ; 

1  quarrel.  2  crying  out,  scolding.  3  Misprinted  stynk. 

*  Misprinted  though.  &  Misprinted  me. 


77 

Therfore,  Johan  Johan,  now  get  the  home 

And  thank  thy  wyfe,  and  say  I  wyll  not  come. 
yohan.    Yet,  let  me  know,  now,  good  Syr  Johan,  B  i  l> 

Where  ye  wyll  go  to  supper  than.  380 

Syr  J.    I  care  nat  greatly  and  I  tell  the. 

On  saterday  last,  I  and  ii  or  thre 

Of  my  frendes  made  an  appoyntement, 

And  agaynst  this  nyght  we  dyd  assent 

That  in  a  place  we  wolde  sup  together;  385 

And  one  of  them  sayd,  he  1  wolde  brynge  thether 

Ale  and  bread ;  and  for  my  parte,  I 

Sayd,  that  I  wolde  gyve  them  a  pye, 

And  there  I  gave  them  money  for  the  makynge ; 

And  an-other  sayd,  she  wolde  pay  for  the  bakyng ;  390 

And  so  we  purpose  to  make  good  chere 

For  to  dryve  away  care  and  thought. 
Johan.    Than  I  pray  you,  Syr,  tell  me  here, 

Whythcr  shulde  all  this  geare  be  brought  ? 
Syr  y.    By  my  fayth,  and  I  shulde  not  lye,  395 

It  shulde  be  delyvered  to  thy  wyfe,  the  pye. 
yohan.    By  God  !    it  is  at  my  house,  standyng  by  the  fyre. 
Syr  y.    Who  bespake  that  pye  ?   I  the  requyre. 
"Johan.    By  my  feyth,  and  I  shall  not  lye, 

It  was  my  wyfe,  and  her  gossyp  Margerye,  400 

And  your  good  masshyp,2  callyd  Syr  Johan, 

And  my  neybours  yongest  doughter  An  ; 

Your  masshyp  payde  for  the  stuffe  and  makyng, 

And  Margery  she  payde  for  the  bakyng.;i 

Syr  y.    If  thou  wylte  have  me  nowe,  in  faithe  I  wyll  go.  405 

yohan.    Ye,  mary,  I  bescche  your  masshyp  do  so, 

My  wyfe  taryeth  for  none  but  us  twayne  ; 

She  thynketh  longe  or  I  come  agayne. 
Syr  y.    Well  nowe,  if  she  chyde  me  in  thy  prcsens, 

I  wylbe  content,  and  take  [it]  in  pacyens.  410 

1  Apparently  a  misprint  for  she ;   it  was  clearly  to  be  provided  by  Tyb  ;   cf.  1.   6 1 8. 

*  Cf.  Play  of  Wether,  1.  235.      Udall's  R.  !>.,  I.  iv.   33,  etc. 

8  No  provision  seems  to  have  been  made  for  Margery  and  Anne  sharing  in  the  pie. 


78  Johan   Johan 

Johan.    By  cokkis  soule,  and  she  ones  chyde, 

Or  frowne,  or  loure,  or  loke  asyde, 

I  shall  brynge  you  a  staffe  as  myche  as  I  may  heve, 

Than  bete  her  and  spare  not ;   I  gyve  you  good  leve 

To  chastyce  her  for  her  shreude  varyeng.  415 

[They  return  to  JOHAN'S  house .] 
Tyb.    The  devyll  take  the  for  thy  long  taryeng  ! 

Here  is  not  a  vvhyt  of  water,  by  my  gowne, 

To  washe  our  handes  that  we  myght  syt  downe ; 

Go  and  hye  the,  as  fast  as  a  snayle, 

And  with  fayre  water  fyll  me  this  payle.  420 

Johan.    I  thanke  our  Lorde  of  his  good  grace 

That  I  cannot  rest  longe  in  a  place. 
Tyb.    Go,  fetche  water,  I  say,  at  a  worde,  B  ii 

For  it  is  tyme  the  pye  were  on  the  borde  ; 

And  go  with  a  vengeance,  &  say  thou  art  prayde.  425 

Syr.  J.    A  !   good  gossyp  !   is  that  well  sayde  ? 
Tyb.    Welcome,  myn  owne  swete  harte, 

We  shall  make  some  chere  or  we  departe. 
Johan.    Cokkis  soule,  loke  howe  he  approcheth  nere 

Unto  my  wyfe  :   this  abateth  my  chere.      [.£>/'/.]  430 

Syr  J.    By  God,  I  wolde  ye  had  harde  the  tryfyls, 

The  toys,  the  mokkes,  the  fables,  and  the  nyfyls,1 

That  I  made  thy  husbande  to  beleve  and  thynke  ! 

Thou  myghtest  as  well  into  the  erthe  synke, 

As  thou  coudest  forbeare  laughyng  any  whyle.  435 

Tyb.    I  prav  the  let  me  here  part  of  that  wyle. 
Syr  J.    Mary,  I  shall  tell  the  as  fast  as  I  can. 

But  peas,  no  more  —  yonder  cometh  thy  good  man. 

[Re-enter  JOHAX.] 

Johan.    Cokkis  soule,  what  have  we  here  ? 

As  far  as  I  sawc,  he  drewe  very  nere  440 

Unto  my  wyfe. 
Tyb.  What,  art  come  so  sone? 

Gyve  us  water  to  wasshe  nowe  —  have  done. 

1  Cf.    "nyfuls,"   I'lay  ,,f  the  Wether,  \.   617. 


"Johan 


79 


Than  be  bryngetb  the  pa^le  empty. 

Johan.    By  kockes  soule,  it  was,  even  nowe,  full  to  the  brynk, 

But  it  was  out  agayne  or  I  coude  thynke  ; 

Wherof  I  marveled,  by  God  Almyght,  445 

And  than  I  loked  betwene  me  and  the  lyght 

And  I  spyed  a  clyfte,  bothe  large  and  wyde. 

Lo,  wyfe  !   here  it  is  on  the  tone  J  syde. 
Tyb.    Why  dost  not  stop  it  ? 

Johan.  Why,  hovve  shall  I  do  it  ? 

Tyb.    Take  a  lytle  wax. 

Johan.  Hovve  shal  I  come  to  it  ?  450 

Syr  J.    Mary,  here  be  ii  wax  candyls,  I  say, 

Whiche  my  gossyp  Margery  gave  me  yesterday. 
Tyb.    Tusshe,  let  hym  alone,  for,  by  the  rode, 

It  is  pyte  to  helpe  hym,  or  do  hym  good. 
Syr  J.    What  !   Jhan  Jhan,  canst  thou  make  no  shyfte  ?  455 

Take  this  waxe,  and  stop  therwith  the  clyfte. 
Johan.    This  waxe  is  as  harde  as  any  wyre. 
Tyb.    Thou  must  chafe  it  a  lytle  at  the  fyre. 
Johan.    She  that  boughte  the  these  waxe  candylles  twayne, 

She  is  a  good  companyon  certayn.  460 

Tyb.    What,  was  it  not  my  gossyp  Margery  ? 
Syr  J.    Yes,  she  is  a  blessed  woman  surely. 
Tyb.    Nowe  wolde  God  I  were  as  good  as  she, 

For  she  is  vertuous,  and  full  of  charyte. 
Johan  [aside].    Nowe,  so  God  helpe  me;  and  by  my  holydome,2  465 

She  is  the  erranst  baud  betwene  this  and  Rome. 
Tyb.    What  sayst  ?  B  ii  b 

Johan.  Mary,  I  chafe  the  wax, 

And  I  chafe  it  so  hard  that  my  ringers  krakks. 

But  take  up  this  py  that  I  here  torne  ; 

And  it  stand  long,  y-wys  it  wyll  borne.  470 

Tyb.    Ye,  but  thou  must  chafe  the  wax,  I  say. 
Johan.    Byd  hym  syt  down,  I  the  pray  - 

Syt  down,  good  Syr  Johan,  I  you  requyre. 
Tyb.    Go,  1  say,  and  chafe  the  wax  by  the  tyre, 

1  Cf.  1.  21  I.  2  salvation. 


8o  Johan   Johan 


Whyle  that  we  sup,  Syr  Jhan  and  I.  475 

Johan.    And  how  now,  what  wyll  ye  do  with  the  py  ? 

Shall  I  not  etc  thcrof  a  morsell  ? 
Tyb.    Go  and  chafe  the  wax  whyle  thou  art  well, 

And  let  us  have  no  more  pratyng  thus. 
Syr.  J.    Benedidte. 

'Johan.  Dominus.  480 

Tvb.    Now  go  chafe  the  wax,  with  a  myschyfe. 
Johan.    What  !   I  come  to  blysse  the  bord,1  swete  wyfe ! 

It  is  my  custome  now  and  than. 

Mych  good  do  it  you,  Master  Syr  Jhan. 

Tyb.    Go  chafe  the  wax,  and  here  no  lenger  tary.  485 

Johan  \aside~\ .    And  is  not  this  a  very  purgatory 

To  se  folkis  ete,  and  may  not  ete  a  byt  ? 

By  kokkis  soule,  I  am  a  very  wodcok. 

This  payle  here,  now  a  vengaunce  take  it ! 

Now  my  wyfe  gyveth  me  a  proud  mok  !  490 

Tyb.    What  dost  ? 
Johan.  Mary,  I  chafe  the  wax  here, 

And  I  ymagyn  to  make  you  good  chere, 
\_Aside.~\     That  a  vengaunce  take  you  both  as  ye  syt, 

For  I  know  well  I  shall  not  ete  a  byt. 

But  yet,  in  feyth,  yf  I  myght  ete  one  morsell,  495 

I  wold  thynk  the  matter  went  very  well. 
Syr  J.    Gossyp,  Jhan  Jhan,  now  mych  good  do  it  you. 

What  chere  make  you,  there  by  the  fyre  ? 
Johan.    Master  parson,  I  thank  yow  now  ; 

I  fare  well  enow  after  myne  own  desyre.  500 

Syr  J.    What  dost,  Jhan  Jhan,  I  the  requyre  ? 
Johan.    I  chafe  the  wax  here  by  the  fyre. 
T\b.    Here  is  good  drynk,  and  here  is  a  good  py. 
Syr  J.    We  fare  very  well,  thankyd  be  our  lady. 
Tyb.    Loke  how  the  kokold  chafyth  the  wax  that  is  hard,  505 

And  for  his  lyfe,  daryth  not  loke  hetherward. 

1  Cf.    Fernet' s: 

Vous  irayje  signer  la  table  ? 
Je  scay  bien  le  benedicite. 


yohan 


8  1 


Syr  J.    What  doth  my  gossyp  ? 

Johan.  I  chafe  the  wax  — 

\_Aside.~\  And  I  chafe  it  so  hard  that  my  fyngers  krakks  ; 

And  eke  the  smoke  puttyth  out  my  eyes  two  : 

I  burne  my  face,  and  ray  my  clothys  also,  B  iii      510 

And  yet  I  dare  not  say  one  word, 

And  they  syt  laughyng  ycnder  at  the  bord. 
Tyb.    Now,  by  my  trouth,  it  is  a  prety  jape, 

For  a  wyfe  to  make  her  husband  her  ape. 

Loke  of  Jhan  Jhan,  which  maketh  hard  shyft  515 

To  chafe  the  wax,  to  stop  therwith  the  clyft. 
Johan  [aside]  .    Ye,  that  a  vengeance  take  ye  both  two, 

Both  hym  and  the,  and  the  and  hym  also  ; 

And  that  ye  may  choke  with  the  same  mete 

At  the  furst  mursell  that  ye  do  ete.  520 

Tyb.    Of  what  thyng  now  dost  thou  clatter, 

Jhan  Jhan  ?   or  whereof  dost  thou  patter  ? 
'Johan.    I  chafe  the  wax,  and  make  hard  shyft 

To  stopt  her-with  of  the  payll  the  ryft. 
Syr  J.    So  must  he  do,  Jhan  Jhan,  by  my  father  kyn,  525 

That  is  bound  of  wedlok  in  the  yoke. 
Johan  \aside\.    Loke  how  the  pyld  preest  cram  myth  in; 

That  wold  to  God  he  myght  therwith  choke. 
Tyb.    Now,  Master  Parson,  pleasyth  your  goodnes 

To  tell  us  some  tale  of  myrth  or  sadnes,  530 

For  our  pastyme,  in  way  of  communycacyon. 
Syr  J.    I  am  content  to  do  it  for  our  recreacvon, 

And  of  iii  myracles  I  shall  to  you  say. 
Johan.    What,  must  I  chafe  the  wax  all  day, 

And  stond  here,  rostyng  by  the  fyre  ?  535 

Syr  J.    Thou  must  do  somwhat  at  thy  wyvcs  desyre! 

I  know  a  man  whych  weddyd  had  a  wyfe, 

As  fayre  a  woman  as  ever  bare  Ivfe, 

And  within  a  senyght  after,  ryght  sone 

He  went  beyond  se,  and  left  her  alone,  540 

And  taryed  there  about  a  vii  ycre  •, 

And  as  he  cam  homeward  he  had  a  hew  chere, 


82  yohan   Joh 


an 

For  it  was  told  hym  that  she  was  in  heven. 

But,  when  that  he  comen  home  agayn  was, 

He  found  his  wyfe,  and  with  her  chyldren  seven,  545 

Whiche  she  had  had  in  the  mene  space  ; 

Yet  had  she  not  had  so  many  by  thre 

Yf  she  had  not  had  the  help  of  me. 

Is  not  this  a  myracle,  yf  ever  were  any, 

That  this  good  wyfe  shuld  have  chyldren  so  many  550 

Here  in  this  town,  whyle  her  husband  shuld  be 

Beyond  the  se,  in  a  farre  contre. 
"Johan.    Now,  in  good  soth,  this  is  a  wonderous  myracle, 

But  for  your  labour,  I  wolde  that  your  tacle  B  iii  /> 

Were  in  a  skaldyng  water  well  sod.  555 

Tyb.    Peace,  I  say,  thou  lettest  the  worde  of  God. 
Sir  J.    An  other  myracle  eke  I  shall  you  say, 

Of  a  woman,  whiche  that  many  a  day 

Had  been  wedded,  and  in  all  that  season 

She  had  no  chylde,  nother  doughter  nor  son  ;  560 

Wherfore  to  Saynt  Modwin  J  she  went  on  pilgrimage, 

And  offered  there  a  lyve  pyg,  as  is  the  usage 

Of  the  wyves  that  in  London  dwell  ; 

And  through  the  vertue  therof,  truly  to  tell, 

Within  a  moneth  after,  ryght  shortly,  565 

She  was  delyvered  of  a  chylde  as  moche  as  I. 

How  say  you,  is  not  this  myracle  wonderous  ? 
Johan.    Yes,  in  good  soth,  syr,  it  is  marvelous  ; 

But  surely,  after  myn  opynyon, 

That  chylde  was  nother  doughter  nor  son.  570 

For  certaynly,  and  I  be  not  begylde, 

She  was  delyvered  of  a  knave  chylde. 
Tyb.    Peas,  I  say,  for  Goddis  passyon, 

Thou  lettest  Syr  Johan's  communication. 
Sir  y.    The  thyrde  myracle  also  is  this  :  575 

I  knewe  another  woman  eke  y-wys, 

1  S.  Modwena,  an  Irish  virgin,  who  died  A.n.  518.  She  is  said  to  have  been  the  patroness 
of  Burton-upon-Trent,  and  Henry  VIII.  's  commissioners  sent  thence  to  London  "the  image 
of  scint  Moodwyn  with  her  red  kowe  and  hir  staff,  which  vvymen  labouryng  ot  child  in  those 
parties  were  very  desirous  to  have  with  them  to  lean  upon." 


Johan  ,Johan  83 

Whiche  was  wedded,  &  within  v.  monthis  after 

She  was  dely vered  of  a  fayre  doughter, 

As  well  formed  in  every  membre  &  joynt, 

And  as  perfyte  in  every  poynt  580 

As  though  she  had  gone  v  monthis  full  to  th'  ende. 

Lo  !   here  is  v  monthis  of  advantage. 
Johan.    A  wonderous  myracle  !   so  God  me  mende  ; 

I  wolde  eche  wyfe  that  is  bounde  in  maryage, 

And  that  is  wedded  here  within  this  place,  585 

Myght  have  as  quicke  spede  in  every  suche  case. 
Tyb.    Forsoth,  Syr  Johan,  yet  for  all  that 

I  have  sene  the  day  that  pus,  my  cat, 

Hath  had  in  a  yere  kytlyns  eyghtene. 
Johan.    Ye,  Tyb,  my  wyfe,  and  that  have  I  sene.  590 

But  howe  say  you,  Syr  Jhan,  was  it  good,  your  pye  ? 

The  dyvell  the  morsell  that  therof  eate  I. 

By  the  good  lorde  this  is  a  pyteous  warke  — 

But  nowe  I  se  well  the  olde  proverbe  is  treu  : 

The  parysshe  preest  forgetteth  that  ever  he  was  clarke  !      595 

But,  Syr  Jhan,  doth  not  remembre  you 

How  I  was  your  clerke,  &  holpe  you  masse  to  syng, 

And  hylde  the  basyn  alway  at  the  offryng  ?  B  iv 

He  never  had  halfe  so  good  a  clarke  as  I  ! 

But,  notwithstandyng  all  this,  nowe  our  pye  600 

Is  eaten  up,  there  is  not  lefte  a  byt, 

And  you  two  together  there  do  syt, 

Eatynge  and  drynkynge  at  your  owne  desyre, 

And  I  am  Johan  Johan,  whiche  must  stande  by  the  tyre 

Chafyng  the  wax,  and  dare  none  other  wyse  do.  605 

Syr  J.    And  shall  we  alway  syt  here  styll,  we  two  ? 

That  were  to  mych. 

Tyb.  Then  ryse  we  out  of  this  place. 

Syr  J.    And  kys  me  than  in  the  stede  of  grace ; 

And  farewell  leman  and  my  love  so  dere. 
Johan.    Cokkis  body,  this  waxe  it  waxte  colde  agayn  here; —    610 

But  what  !   shall  I  anone  go  to  bed, 

And  eate  nothyng,  nother  meatc  nor  brcde  ? 


§4 

I  have  not  be  wont  to  have  suche  fare. 
Tyb.    Why  !   were  ye  not  served  there  as  ye  are, 

Chafyng  the  waxe,  standying  by  the  fyre?  615 

'Johan.    Why,  what  mete  gave  ye  me,  I  you  requyre  ? 
Sir  ~J.    Wast  thou  not  served,  I  pray  the  hartely, 

Both  with  the  brede,  the  ale,  and  the  pye  ? 
yoban.    No,  syr,  I  had  none  of  that  fare. 
Tyb.    Why  !   were  ye  not  served  there  as  ye  are,  620 

Standyng  by  the  fyre  chafyng  the  waxe  ? 
'Joban.    Lo,  here  be  many  tryfyls  and  knakks  — 

By  kokkis  soule,  they  wene  I  am  other  dronke  or  mad. 
Tyb.    And  had  ye  no  meate,  Johan  Johan  ?   no  had  ? 
yohan.    No,  Tyb  my  wyfe,  I  had  not  a  whyt.  625 

Tyb.    What,  not  a  morsel  ? 
yoban.  No,  not  one  byt ; 

For  honger,  I  trowe,  I  shall  fall  in  a  sowne. 
Sir  y.    O,  that  were  pyte,  I  swere  by  my  crowne. 
Tyb.    But  is  it  trewe  ? 
yohan.  Ye,  for  a  surete. 

Tyb.    Dost  thou  ly  ? 

'Johan.  No,  so  mote  I  the  ! 1  630 

Tyb.    Hast  thou  had  nothyng  ? 
'Johan.  No,  not  a  byt. 

Tyb.    Hast  thou  not  dronke  ? 
'Johan.  No,  not  a  whyt. 

Tyb.    Where  wast  thou  ? 

'Johan.  By  the  fyre  I  dyd  stande. 

Tyb.    What  dydyst  ? 
yohan.  I  chafed  this  waxe  in  my  hande, 

Whcre-as  I  knewe  of  wedded  men  the  payne  635 

That  they  have,  and  yet  dare  not  complayne  ; 

For  the  smoke  put  out  my  eyes  two, 

I  burned  my  face,  and  rayde  my  clothes  also, 

Mendyng  the  payle,  whiche  is  so  rotten  and  olde, 

That  it  will  not  skant  together  holde  ;  640 

And  syth  it  is  so,  and  syns  that  ye  twayn 

1  may  I  thrive. 


85 

Wold  gyve  me  no  meate  for  my  suffysance,  B  i\  h 

By  kofkjkis  soule  I  wyll  take  no  lengcr  payn, 

Ye  shall  do  all  yourself,  with  a  very  vengaunce, 

For  me,  and  take  thou  there  thy  payle  now,  645 

And  yf  thou  canst  mend  it,  let  me  se  how. 
Tvb.    A  !   horson's  knave  !   hast  thou  brok  my  payll  ? 

Thou  shalt  repent,  by  kokkis  lylly  nayll. 

Rech  me  my  dystaf,  or  my  clyppyng  sherys  : 

I  shall  make  the  blood  ronne  about  his  erys.  650 

'Johan.    Nay,  stand  styll,  drab,  I  say,  and  come  no  nere, 

For  by  kokkis  blood,  yf  thou  come  here, 

Or  yf  thou  onys  styr  toward  this  place, 

I  shall  throw  this  shovyll  full  of  colys  in  thy  face. 
Tvb.    Ye  !   horson  dryvyll  !  get  the  out  of  my  dore.  655 

"Johan.    Nay  !  get  thou  out  of  my  house,  thou  prestis  hore. 
Sir  "J.    Thou  lyest,  horson  kokold,  evyn  to  thy  face. 
'Johan.    And  thou  lyest,  pyld  preest,  with  an  evyll  grace. 
Tyb.    And  thou  lyest. 

'Johan.  And  thou  lyest,  Syr. 

Syr  y.  And  thou  lyest  agayn. 

"Johan.    By  kokkis  soule,  horson  preest,  thou  shalt  be  slayn  ;       660 

Thou  hast  eate  our  pye,  and  gyve  me  nought, 

By  kokkes  blod,  it  shal  be  full  derely  bought. 
Tyb.    At  hym,  Syr  Johan,  or  els  God  gyve  the  sorow. 
'Johan.    And  have  at  your  hore  and  there,  Saynt  George  to  borrow.1 

Here  they  fyght  by  the  erys  a  whyle,  and  than  the  preest  and  the  w\fe  go 
out  of  the  place. 

Johan.    A  !  syrs  !   I  have  payd  some  of  them  even  as  I  lyst,        665 
They  have  borne  many  a  blow  with  my  fyst, 
I  thank  God,  I  have  walkyd  them  well, 
And  dryven  them  hens.      But  yet,  can  ye  tell 
Whether  they  be  go  ?   for  by  God,  I  fere  me, 
That  they  be  gon  together,  he  and  she,  670 

Unto  his  chamber,  and  perhappys  she  wyll, 
Spyte  of  my  hart,  tary  there  styll, 

1  for  my  backer.      Cf.  R.  D.  IV.  vii.  75,  IV.  viii.  45. 


86 


And,  peradventure,  there,  he  and  she 

Wyll  make  me  cokold,  evyn  to  anger  me  ; 

And  then  had  I  a  pyg  in  the  woyrs  l  panyer,  675 

Therfor,  by  God,  I  wyll  hye  me  thyder 

To  se  yf  they  do  me  any  vylany  : 

And  thus  fare  well  this  noble  company. 


FINIS 


/        ..  f\       ,  <•  •>  V'-'. 

Imprinted  by  Wyllyam  Rastell 

the  xii  day  of  February 

, .  s.  ,       . ...  '    ..    ^w  -v" 
the  yere  or  our  Lord 

MCCCC  and  xxxin  -" 
Cum  fri'vilegio    ' 

'•<     .a  .  r  f>  '•-,   \.  >.-  t*«.  *'    . ' 
»  '    .-•-• 


Nicholas  Udall 


ROISTER    DOISTER 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and 
Notes  by  Eivald  F  luge  I,  Ph.D., 
Professor  in  Stanford  University 


CRITICAL   ESSAY 

Life.  —  Nicholas  Udall  was  born  in  i  506,  of  a  good  family  residing  in 
Hampshire.  As  a  lad  of  fourteen  he  entered  Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford, 
and  took  his  bachelor's  degree  there  in  May,  1524.'  The  years  of  his  Uni- 
versity life  came  at  a  period  of  great  religious  fermentation,  and  young  Udall 
was,  according  to  an  old  tradition,2  one  of  the  young  enthusiasts  in  whom 
the  humanistic  tilling  of  Erasmus  had  prepared  the  soil  for  Lutheran  doctrines 
from  Wittenberg.  We  may,  therefore,  imagine  young  Udall  to  have  been 
one  of  those  of  whose  heretical  perversities  Warham  complains  to  Wolsey.3 
Apparently  Udall,  as  he  grew  older,  grew  if  not  calmer  at  least  more  cau- 
tious, and  succeeded  later  in  gaining  the  favour  of  Mary  the  Princess,  and  in 
retaining  that  of  Mary  the  Queen.  While  at  college,  he  formed  a  lasting 
friendship  with  John  Leland,  a  friendship  of  which  some  poems  of  the  latter 
give  us  a  pleasing  testimony.4  Leland,  of  almost  the  same  age  as  Udall,  had 
taken  his  first  degree  at  Cambridge  in  1522,  and  according  to  an  old  custom, 
he  continued  his  studies  at  Oxford,  where  Udall' s  generosity  won  his  heart.5 
In  May,  1533,  a  number  of  verses  were  composed  by  them  in  joint  author- 
ship, for  a  pageant  at  the  coronation  of  Anne  Boleyn.6  In  the  same  year 
Udall  seems  to  have  settled  at  London  as  a  teacher.  He  may  even  have  con- 
templated becoming  a  monk — like  Thomas  More  thirty  years  earlier;  he 
certainly  dates  his  preface  to  the  Flowers  from  Terence  from  the  Augustinian 
Monastery  at  London,  on  the  last  of  February,  1534.  In  the  following 


1  Wood 
makes  him 


's  Fasti,  quoted  by  Arber.  Arber  assigns  I  504  as  the  year  of  Udall's  birth,  but 
...«  "  aet.  18  "  in  1524.  Cf.  Cooper's  Extracts  from  C.  C.  C.  Register. 

2  Cf.  Bale,  Catal.  ed.  1557,  Cent.  9,  45  (fol.  717  ;  general  statement  concerning  Udall's 
Protestantism).  Luthcranis  disci flinis  dum  in  academia  stuJuit  addictus  fuit,  Tanner  after 
Wood,  cf.  Cooper,  XII.  It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  we  do  not  find  Udall  in  correspond- 
ence with  the  reformers  "  in  exile." 

8  In  March,   1521,  cf.  Ellis,   Original  Letters,  I.  i,  239  syy. 

«  Reprinted  from  Leland's  Collectanea,  V.  by  Cooper,  XII.  XIV.  XXVI. 

5  Cf.  the  epigram  "  de  liberal! tate  Nic.  OJoua//i,"  quoted  by  Cooper,  XII. 

G  Original  among  the  Royal  Mss.,  18  A.  L.  XIV.  Cf.  Calendars,  etc.,  VI.,  No.  564; 
Ib.  565,  referring  to  Latin  verses  on  this  coronation  by  Richard  Coxe,  Udall's  predecessor  at 
Eton  (from  llarl.  Ms.  6148,  f.  117).  Udall's  verses  are  ri-printed  by  Arber,  Kng/isb  Garner, 
2,  52;  parts  of  them  published  by  Collier  and  Kairholt.  Cf.  Coo|>er  (XIII.  ),  who  dates  the 
pageant  1532  (as  does  Ward,  Hist.  Dram.  Poetry,  I.  141).  This  pageant  shows  Udall's 
earliest  connection  with  the  revels,  and  may  have  given  him  a  name  at  the  side  of  Heywood. 


90  Nicholas  Udall 

June  he  received  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  from  Oxford,  and  appears  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  same  year  as  "  Magister  Informator  "  at  Eton,  succeed- 
ing Master  Richard  Coxe.1  In  this  capacity  he  received  payments  between 
the  last  terms,  1534  and  I54i".2 

We  can  scarcely  judge  at  this  late  day  of  the  character  ot  Udall's  educa- 
tional services,  but  the  fact  that  he  was  generally  on  good  terms  with  his 
pupils  may  reasonably  be  inferred  from  the  preface  to  the  edition  of  the 
Flowers,  printed  in  1545. 

We  may  further  infer  with  regard  to  his  mastership  at  Eton,  that  he  was 
himself  influenced  by  the  Eton  custom  of  performing  a  play  at  Christmas.  It 
appears  even  possible  that  the  clause  in  a  "consuetudinary"  of  Eton  (about 
i  560),  allowing  the  Latin  school  comedy  to  give  place  to  an  English  one, 
if  it  were  "  witty  and  graceful,"  3  may  have  been  a  result  of  Udall's  master- 
ship. And  it  is  probable  that  Roister  Doister  was  originally  one  of  such 
plays  unpretentiously  offered  by  Udall  to  his  boys,4  modestly  put  aside  after 
the  performance  and  printed  long  afterwards.  If  all  this  be  true,  Udall's 
mastership  deserves  immortal  fame  in  the  annals  of  English  literature.  But 
the  immortality  is  unfortunately  of  a  different  nature.  Udall  is  stigmatized 
by  one  ungrateful  pupil  as  a  second  Orbilius  plagosus,  the  realization  of  Eras- 
mus's  executioner.  Tusser's  often  quoted  doggerel  runs  : 

"  From  Paules  I  went  to  Eaton  sent 
To  learn  streight  vvaies,  the  latin  phraies, 
When  fiftie  three  stripes  giuen  to  mee 

At  once  I  had  : 

For  fault  but  small,  or  none  at  all, 
It  came  to  pas,  thus  beat  I  was, 
See  Udall  see,  the  mercie  of  thee, 

To  me  poore  lad."  5 

We  cannot  now  decide  upon  the  merits  of  the  case,  but  we  are  inclined 
to  think  that  Tom  Tusser  the  boy  was  as  shiftless  as  Thomas  Tusser  the 

1  U.  speaks  later  of  the  Eton  mastership  as  "  that  roume  which  I  was  neuer  desirous  to 
obtain."  2  Cf.  Arber,  p.  3. 

8  Cf.  Wafton,  Hist,  uf  English  Poetry,  3,  308  ;  Interdum  etiatn  exbibet  [sc.  ludi  magistcr] 
Anglico  sermonc  c'jtitcxtas  fabulas,  si  qua  habeant  acumen  et  leporem.  Eton  was  the  only  place 
where  tve  knoiv  of  English  plays  ;  but  Radulphus  Radclif  at  Hitchin  may  have  performed  some 
of  his  school  comedies  in  English,  as  the  "  plebs  "  mentioned  by  Bale  would  not  much  have 
appreciated  Latin  performances,  Cata/ogus,  8,  98,  fol.  700  ;  Herford,  Literary  Relations,  p.  1 10, 
citing  the  occasional  admission  of  English  school  plays  at  Eton,  says  that  to  "  this  concession 
we  owe  the  Ralph  Roister  Doistcr."  More  likely  we  owe  the  concession  to  Roister  Doister. 
Cf.  Herford  on  Udall's  DC  Papatit. 

4  It  seems  improbable   that  the  R.  D.  was  ever  performed   at   Court;   Udall's   "interludes 
and  devices"  were  pageants,  as  the  Lose/cy  Mss.  prove;  see  below. 

5  Tusser's  JOO  Pointes,  ed.  Payne  &  Herrtage,  p.  205. 


Nicholas  Udall  91 

man  later  proved  to  be,  and  that,  although  he  may  have  been  a  fine  "  quer- 
ister,"  his  "latin  phraies  "  would  frequently  offend  the  ear  of  the  con- 
scientious humanist.  Let  us  suppose  that  Thomas  deserved  his  fifty-three 
stripes  twice  over,  but  did  not  realize  that  6  firj  Saptt?  avOparrros  OVK  TTCU- 


In  March,  i  541,  2  some  abuses  were  exposed  that  had  lately  disgraced  the 
school.  A  robbery  of  plate  and  silver  images  was  detected,  to  which  two 
late  Eton  scholars  and  a  servant  of  Udall'  s  confessed  ;  and  Udall  himself 
became  "suspect  to  be  counsel  of  the  robbery."  The  judicial  report  states 
that  Udall  "having  certain  interrogatoryes  ministred  unto  hym  toching  the 
sayd  fact  and  other  felonious  trespasses  whereof  he  was  suspected,  did  confess 
that  he  did  comitt  a  heinous  offence  with  the  sayd  cheney  [a  "  scoler  "  of 
Eton]  sundry  tymes  hertofore  and  of  late  the  vjth  day  of  this  present  monethe 
in  this  present  yere  at  London  :  whereupon  he  was  committed  to  the  Mar- 
shalsey." 

Udall  was  discharged  from  his  office,  but  did  not  remain  long  in  prison 
(as  would  have  been  the  case  if  he  had  been  proved  guilty  of  a  "felonious" 
crime)  ;  and  an  influential  personage  unknown  to  us  made  efforts  to  bring 
about  his  "  restitucion  to  the  roume  of  Scholemaister  in  Eton."  Udall 
thanked  this  patron  in  an  interesting  letter,  which  seems  to  corroborate  the 
words  of  the  indictment,  but  states  that  the  "heinous  offence"  was  com- 
mitted in  London  (not  in  Eton),  and  that  it  resulted  in  heavy  debts.  The 
most  careful  consideration  of  the  letter  leads  me  to  believe  that  Udall  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  theft,  but  had  neglected  his  duties  as  teacher,  and 
had  not  given  the  right  example  of  "  frugall  livyng."  3  Most  likely  he  had 
only  followed  the  royal  example;  had  enjoyed  too  much  "  Pastyme  with 
good  companye  !  " 

1  Cooper  attributes  to  UdalPs  severity  the  running  away  from  school  of  "divers"    Eton 
boys  alluded  to  by  Roger  Ascham  (Schoolmaster}.      But  this  passage  refers  to  10  Dec.  1563, 
twenty-two  years  after  Udall  had  ceased  to  swing  the  rod  over  the  Eton  boys  ! 

2  Cf.  quotation  from  Nicolas's  Proceedings  and  Ordinances  of  the  Privy  Council,  7,  152—53, 
in  Cooper;   the  date  is  14  March  32  Henry  VIII.  (1541-42)  and  not  1543,  as  Arber  gives 
it.      Arber  dates  Udall's  letter  also  wrongly  1543  ;   it  is  referred  to  1541—42  in  Ellis's  Original 
Letters  of  Eminent  Literary  Men,  Camden  Soc.,   1843,  p.   I. 

8  "  Accepte  this  myn  honest  chaunge  from  vice  to  virtue,  from  prodigalitee  to  frugall 
livyng,  from  negligence  of  teachyng  to  assiduitee,  from  playe  to  studie,  from  lightness  to 
gravitee."  He  speaks  about  his  "offenses,"  does  not  wish  to  excuse  himself,  but  says 
"  humana  quidem  esse,  et  emendari  posse."  He  begs  for  a  chance  to  show  his  "  emendyng 
and  reformac'on,"  and  quotes  instances  from  ancient  history  of  great  men  who  had  indulged  in 
a  "  veray  riottous  and  dissolute  sorte  of  livyng  "  in  their  youth,  had  been  "drowned  in  volup- 
tuousness" and  had  lived  in  "  slaundre  and  infamie,"  but  had  reformed.  Not  a  word  is  said 
about  thefts,  "robberies,'"  and  such  "felonious  trespasses."  Cf.  the  whole  letter  from  a  new 
collation  in  Fliigel's  Lcscliucb,  I,  351. 


92  Nicholas  Udall 

In  the  same  letter  Udall  petitions  for  a  place  where  he  could  show  his 
"amendment,"  and  which  would  enable  him  also  "by  litle  and  litle  .  .  . 
to  paye  euery  man  his  own."  x 

We  do  not  know  of  the  result  of  this  letter,  but  it  seems  that  Udall  went 
"north"  in  the  autumn  of  the  same  year.  At  any  rate,  in  October,  1542, 
Robert  Aldrich,  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  received  letters  "by  the  hande  of  Mr. 
Vdall  "  ;-  and  Leland  in  a  charming  little  song  addressed  to  his  "snow- 
white  friend,"  refers  to  Udall  as  residing  among  the  "  Brigantes,  where 
Mars  now  has  the  rule."  3 

In  the  same  autumn  appeared  Udall' s  translation  of  Erasmus's  Apophthegms* 
and  —  after  his  return  south  —  he  was  connected  for  the  following  three 
years  with  a  great  literary  undertaking,  which  was  not  only  favoured  by  the 
Court,  but  progressing  under  its  auspices  and  with  its  collaboration,  —  Prin- 
cess Mary  taking  the  most  active  part.  This  was  the  English  translation  of 
Erasmus's  Paraphrase  of  the  New  Testament.5 

Under  Edward  VI.,  Udall  devoted  himself  to  theological  works  ;  he  stood 
up  for  the  royal  prerogative  in  religious  matters  in  his  Answer  to  the  articles 
of  the  commoners  of  Devonshire  and  Cornwall  (summer  I5496);  he  took  his 
share  in  a  memorial  volume  published  in  1551,  after  Bucer's  death,  and  he 
translated  in  the  same  year  Peter  Martyr's  Tractatus  and  Disputatio  De  Eu- 
charistia.  A  royal  patent"  (of  1551)  granted  him  the  "privilege  and 

1  U.  does  not  beg  in  this  letter  for  his  "  restitution,"  as  Arber  seems  to  accept. 

2  Cf.  Cooper,  XXIII. 

3  Mars  had   "the  rule"   there  October,  1542-July,  1543    (Froude,  3,  525-570),   then 
again  August,    1547   (Somerset    in    Berwick,   Froude,   4,    288);    the    naval    expedition    of 
Hertford  in  May,  1544,  being  here  out  of  the  question  (Ib.  4,  32). 

4  This  translation  (published  in  September)  might  also  indicate  some  connection  between 
Udall  and  Aldrich  during  the  summer  of  1542.      Aldrich  was  a  great  "  Erasmian  "  ;   he  had 
been  the  ;u-venis  blandie  doquentitt  whom  Erasmus  used  as  interpreter  on  that  immortal  pil- 
grimage to  Walsingham,  and  he  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  Erasmus. 

6  Udall  took  as  his  share  St.  Luke  and  the   "disposition"   of  the  rest  with  exception  of 
St.    John  and   St.  Alark ;   perhaps   he   assisted   also   in   the   translation  of  Mattbeiu  and  Acts. 
The  Prefaces  are  dated  1545,   !548-      The  whole  must  have  been  quite  a  lucrative  business- 
undertaking,  because  every  parish  in   England  had,  by  law,   to  buy  a  copy  of  this  work  and 
"  every  parson  had  to  have  and  diligently  study  the  same  conferring  the  one  [the  Neiu  Testa- 
ment both  in  Latin  and  F.n^lisb^  with  the  other  [the  paraphrase^.      Cf.    Cranmer's    Remains, 
155,  156  (1548)  ;   the   Injunctions   of  Edward,   1547  (Ib.  499,  501),  etc.;   cf.   also   Grin- 
dal's  Works,   134,   157;    Hooper's  Works,  2,   139,   143   (Parker  Soc.). 

fi  Cranmer  too  wrote  "slnsivrrs  to  the  Fifteen  Articles  of  the  Rebels,  Devon,  Anno  1549," 
reprinted  in  his  Remains,  163  ;  and  a  number  of  references  to  the  Rebellion  may  be  found  in 
the  writings  of  the  Reformers,  f.  i.  Letter  of  Hooper  to  Bullinger,  25  June,  i  549,  of  "John  ab 
Ulmis  to  Bullinger,  May  28,  1550,  of  Burcber  to  Bullinger,  25  August,  1549.  But  none 
of  these  correspondents  ever  mention  Udall. 

7  Cf.  Cooper,  XXX. 


Nicholas  Udall  93 

lycense  ...  to  preint  the  Bible  in  Englyshe  as  well  in  the  large  volume  for 
the  use  of  the  churches  w^in  this  our  Realme  ...  as  allso  in  any  other 
convenient  volume." 

This  privilege  was  not  the  only  sign  of  royal  favour  :  we  find  Udall  in 
November,  1551,  presented  by  the  King  to  a  prebend  in  Windsor,1  and  later 
(in  March,  1553)  to  the  Parsonage  of  Calborne,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

After  such  favours  received  from  Edward,  and  such  services  in  the  Prot- 
estant camp,  we  should  expect  to  find  Udall  in  disgrace  under  Queen  Mary, 
and  sharing  with  his  fellow- Protestants  at  least  the  bitter  fate  of  exile,  but 
Mary  had  apparently  preserved  a  grateful  memory  for  her  former  fellow- 
worker  in  the  Erasmian  translation.  If,  indeed,  she  did  not  use  him  as  a 
theologian,  she  remembered  his  dramatic  talents,  and  so  we  find  that  a  special 
warrant  was  issued,  December  3,  1554,  which  shows  us  Udall  in  the  role 
of  playwright.  The  Office  of  the  Queen's  Revels  was  directed  by  the 
warrant  referred  to,  to  deliver  to  Udall  such  "apparel  "  at  any  time  as  he 
might  require  for  the  "setting  foorth  of  Dialogues  and  Enterludes  "  before 
the  Queen,  for  her  "  regell  disporte  and  recreacion."  In  the  beginning  of 
the  document2  appears  an  allusion  to  Udall  as  having  shown  previously  "at 
soondrie  seasons"  his  "  dilligence  "  in  arranging  "Dialogues  and  Enter- 
ludes" —  important  documentary  evidence  of  his  connection  with  the 
"  Revels,"  a  connection  apparently  begun  with  the  pageant  for  which  he 
furnished  such  poor  verses  at  Anne  Boleyn's  coronation. 

This  evidence  for  the  fact  that  Udall  was  known  as  a  writer  of  "  plays  " 
before  1554  is  singularly  corroborated  by  the  quotation  of  Roister' s  letter 
to  Custance  (Act  III.,  Scene  iv.)  as  an  example  of  "ambiguity"  in  the 
1553  edition  of  Wilson's  Rule  of  Reason? 

1  An  interesting  letter  of  Udall's,  dated  August,    1552,  referring  to  his  place  at  Windsor, 
was  printed  in  Arcbteologia,   1869,  Vol.   XLII.    91,   but  has  not  hitherto  been  utilized  for 
Udall's  Biography.      The  preface  to  a  translation  of  T.  Geminie's  Anatomy  by  Udall  is  dated 
2O  July,  1552  ;   cf.  Cooper,  XXXI.  ;    Udall's  Ephtolte  et  Carmina  ad  Gul.  Hormannum  et  ad 
Jo.  Lclandum,  are  quoted  by  Bale,  etc.,  and  given  under  this  year  by   Cooper  (who  reads  : 
Hermannum).      Hormann  died  1535,  as  vice-provost  of  Eton. 

2  This  warrant  was  communicated  to  the  Archaeological  Society,  December  9,  1824,  by  Mr. 
Bray  (^rcbteo/ogia,  21,  551  ),  but  not  printed  until  1836  in  the  Loseley  Mss.,  now  first  edited 
by  A.  J.  Kempe ;   No.  31,  p.  63. 

8  See  below,  under  Date  of  the  Early  Edition  of  R.  D.  Another  early  allusion  to  Udall  as 
a  playwright  is  that  from  Nichols's  Progresses  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  3,  177,  according  to  which 
"an  English  play  called  Ezekias,  made  by  Mr.  Udall  and  handled  by  King's  College  men 
only,"  was  performed  before  Elizabeth  August  8,  1564,  at  Cambridge;  see  Cooper's  Preface, 
xxxiii.  Bale,  who  does  not  mention  Udall  as  a  playwright  in  the  edition  i  548  of  his  Cata/ogus 
(he  mentions  only  [Ochino's  ?]  Tragoedia  de  papatu),  says  in  the  edition  September,  1557, 
that  Udall  wrote  "corrucdias  plures. "  There  is  nothing  on  Udall  in  his  Supplement  of 
ISS9- 


94  Nicholas   Udall 

As  to  the  nature  of  Udall's  "Dialogues,"  "  Enterludes,"  and  "devises," 
we  are  not  entirely  without  information.  The  very  date  of  the  warrant 
would  indicate  the  occasion  for  Udall's  services  (December  3,  1554),  if 
we  had  not  a  more  definite  statement.  He  was  commissioned  to  get  up  the 
Christmas  shows  before  Mary  and  Philip. 

Udall  was  in  a  dangerous  position,  since  any  reference  to  the  Protestant 
sympathies  of  the  nation  might  have  cost  his  life,  but  he  realized  the  situa- 
tion, and  with  good  tact  presented  "divers  plaies,"  the  "  incydents  "  of 
which  were  very  innocent:1  "A  mask  of  patrons  of  gallies  like  Venetian 
senators,  with  galley-slaves  for  their  torche-bearers ;  a  mask  of  6  Venuses 
or  amorous  ladies  with  6  Cupids  and  6  torche-bearers  to  them,"  and  some 
"  Turkes  archers,"2  "  Turkes  magistrates,"  and  "Turkic  women,"  "6 
lions'  hedds  of  paste  and  cement,"  and  a  few  other  harmless  parapher- 
nalia. 

How  long  Udall  served  the  queen  in  this  capacity  we  do  not  know.  In 
1555,  towards  the  end  of  his  career,  we  find  him  at  his  old  calling  as 
master  of  Westminster  School.3  When  in  November  of  the  following  year 
the  old  monastery  was  again  opened,  naturally  Udall's  services  became 
superfluous,  and  he  was  doubtless  discharged  ;  and  so  indeed  the  darkness 
enshrouding  the  last  months  of  his  life  may  cover  a  period  of  great  distress. 
He  died  in  December,  1556,  and  found  his  last  resting  place  in  St.  Marga- 
ret's, Westminster;  where  almost  thirty  years  before  Skelton  had  found  first 
a  sanctuary  and  then  a  grave. 

It  seems  that  the  queen  did  not  erect  a  monument  over  the  ashes  of  her 
old  friend,  at  least  none  is  registered  by  the  industrious  Weever;4  but  Udall 
does  not  need  a  monument  from  Queen  Mary,  he  has  erected  it  himself — 
cere  perennius  —  in  the  annals  of  English  literature. 

1  It  is  remarkable  that  these  documents  should  never  have  been  utilized  for  Udall's  biog- 
raphy.     Cf.  the  "Miscellaneous  Extracts  from  Various  Accounts  relating  to  the  Office  of  the 
Revels,"   printed  among  the  Loseley  Mss.,   p.   90.      The  Muniment  Room  of  James  More 
Molyneux  at  Loseley   House,  Surrey,  would  furnish  these  and  perhaps  other  documents  most 
valuable  for  Udall's  History  and  that  of  the  Early  Drama. 

The  "  scheme  for  an  interlude,  in  which  the  persons  of  the  drama  were  to  be  a  King, 
a  Knight,  a  Judge,  a  Preacher,  a  Scholar,  a  Ser<v ing-man,"  which  Hazlitt  (Handbook, 
622)  carelessly  attributes  to  Udall,  is  not  connected  with  his  name;  cf.  Loseley  Mss., 
p.  64. 

2  These  may  refer  to  another  pageant,  I.e. 

8  No  exact  date  given  by  Cooper,  XXXIV.  Hales  gives  good  reasons  for  the  probability 
that  Udall's  mastership  commenced  in  1553  ;  cf.  Engliscbe  StuJien,  18,  421  ;  cf.  ib.,  a  very 
interesting  note  on  the  Terentian  Plays,  annually  performed  at  the  Westminster  School.  It 
seems  almost  as  if  here,  as  well  as  at  Eton,  Udall's  headmastership  had  some  significance  for 
the  history  of  the  English  school  comedy. 

*  FuncraH  Monuments,  ed.   1631,  fol.  497. 


Nicholas  Udall  95 

Date  of  the  Play.  —  Roister  Doister  was  formerly  assigned  to  the 
time  of  UdalPs  mastership  at  Eton  (1534— 41). J  In  more  recent 
years,  however,  this  date  has  been  rejected,  and  Professor  J.  W. 
Hales  has  tried  to  show  that  "  this  play  was  in  fact  written  in 
1552,  and  more  probably  written  for  Westminster  school."  2 

The  arguments  of  Professor  Hales,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  might  be 
summarized  thus  : 

1.  The  fact   that  Wilson  —  an  old  Eton  boy  himself,  who  left 
the  school  in  1541,  and  ought  to  have  known  of  the  play  if  it  had 
ever  been  performed  there  —  does  not  insert  the  "ambiguous  letter" 
in  his  first  and  second  editions  of  the  Rule  of  Reason  (1551,  1552), 
whereas  he  inserts  it  in  the  edition  of  1553,  "suggests  that  this  comedy 
was  written  between  the  appearances  of  the  second  and  the  third  editions ." 

In  favour  of  this  theory  speak  further  —  according  to  Professor 
Hales  - 

2.  The  fact  that  Bale  does  not  mention  any  of  Udall's  comedies 
in  the  1548  edition  of  his  Catalogus ; 

3.  The  fact  that  "about   1552"  Udall  was  in  high  esteem  as  a 
"comic  dramatist"; 

4.  The  fact  that   Udall  quotes  a  number  of  proverbial  phrases 
which  he  got  from  Hey  wood's  proverbs,  published  first  in  I  546  ; 

5.  The  fact  that  the   usury  statute  of  37  Henry  VIII.  was  re- 
pealed in    1552,  "of  some  moment"  as  far  as  the  "reference  [in 
the  play]  to  excessive  usury  "  is  concerned. 

The  first  argument  is  doubtless  the  strongest,  but  I  venture  to 
argue  that  the  quotation  of  1553  does  not  prove  that  the  play  was 
written  in  1552,  but  only  that  Wilson  was  unable  to  use  a  copy  of 
the  play  before  1553;  whether  this  copy  was  a  manuscript  copy,  or 
a  printed  (and  now  lost)  edition  of  the  play,  we  cannot  decide  ; 
most  probably  IVihon 's  quotation  was  made  from  an  early  edition  of 
Roister,  printed  in  1552. 

The  fact  that  Wilson  left  Eton  in  1541  seems  to  make  it  probable 
that  he  remembered  the  "ambiguous"  passage  from  his  school  days. 

The  second  argument  is  very  slight,  for  Bale  does  not  give  a 
complete  list  of  Udall's  works  either  in  edition  1548  or  in  edition 

1  See  above,  p.  90,  and  notes. 

2  The  Date  of  the  First  Knglisd  Comedy,  in  Engliscbt  StuJien,   18,  408-421. 


96  Nicholas  Udall 

1557;  nor  does  he  mention  Udall's  connection  with  the  corona- 
tion pageants  of  1533;  and  a  modest  school  comedy  would  natu- 
rally not  at  once  become  public  property. 

The  third  argument  is  based  on  a  serious  anachronism.  If^e  do  not 
know  anything  of  Udall's  fame  as  a  "  comic  dramatist  about  1552." 
The  warrant  of  December  3,  1554,  is  dated,  and  cannot  be  used 
for  "about  1552."  Besides,  the  nature  of  Udall's  "dialogues  and 
interludes "  for  the  "  regell  disporte  and  recreacion,"  as  explained 
on  p.  93,  above,  excludes  any  possibility  of  connecting  these  "Dia- 
logues "  with  the  comedy. 

The  number  of  proverbial  phrases  which  Udall  uses  in  common 
with  Heywood's  Proverbs  (the  early  date  of  which,  1546,  is  rather  a 
myth)  proves  no  dependence  of  Udall  on  Hey  wood.  Their  use  proves 
merely  that  Udall,  as  well  as  Heywood,  talked  the  London  English 
of  his  time,  and  that  both  were  familiar  with  phrases  common  in 
the  earlv  sixteenth  century.  Any  possible  number  of  such  phrases 
could  not  prove  any  "  dependence." 

With  regard  to  the  allusion  in  Roister  Doister  to  the  Usury  Statute, 
one  may  readily  see  that  the  reference  is  not  to  a  date  later  than  the 
repeal,  in  1552,  of  37  Henry  VIII.,  c.  9,  but  to  a  period  between 
I545  an(i  J552-  In  Act  V.,  Scene  vi.,  lines  21  to  30,  Custance 
blames  Roister  humorously,  not  for  taking  interest  at  all,  but  for 
taking  too  much  (fifteen  to  one  !),  and  for  taking  it  right  a-way  instead 
of  waiting  until  the  year  was  up.  The  passage,  therefore,  does  not 
refer  to  the  law  passed  5  and  6  Edward  VI.,  c.  20  (1552),  which 
repeals  37  Henry  VIII.,  c.  9,  and  orders  that  "no  person  shall  lend 
or  forbear  any  sum  of  money  for  any  maner  of  Usury  or  Increase 
to  be  received  or  hoped  for  above  the  Sum  lent,  upon  pain  to  forfeit 
the  Sum  lent,  and  the  Increase,  [with]  Imprisonment,  and  Fine  at 
the  king's  pleasure."  The  passage  refers  to  37  Henry  VIII.,  c.  20 
(1545),  to  a  law  which  allows  ten  per  cent  interest:  "The  sum  of 
ten  pound  in  the  hundred,  and  so  after  that  rate  and  not  above"  and 
which  forbids  the  lender  "to  receive,  accept  or  take  in  Lucre  or 
Gain  for  the  forbearing  or  giving  Day  of  Payment  of  one  -whole  year 
of  and  for  his  or  their  money,"  for  any  other  "  Period  "  but  the 
year,  not  "  for  a  longer  or  snorter  time."  Cf.  the  technical  term 
"  gain  "  in  line  30. 


Nicholas  Udall  97 

If,  therefore,  Custance's  joke  can  be  taken  as  an  indication  of 
the  time  when  the  play  was  written,  it  would  be  an  indication 
of  the  period  between  1545  and  1552,  or,  at  any  rate,  before  1552. ] 

I  should,  however,  not  be  inclined  on  account  of  this  reference 
to  usury  to  date  the  play  between  1545  and  1552.  I  would  rather 
regard  the  allusion  as  a  later  insertion,  which  ought  not  to  weaken 
the  force  of  the  internal  evidence  in  favour  of  the  old  theory,  accord- 
ing to  which  the  play  belongs  to  the  Eton  period  of  UdalFs  life,  to 
the  years  between  1534  and  1541. 

Date  of  the  Early  Edition.  — The  Stationers  Company's  Registers 
show  (ed.  Arber,  I,  331)  four  pence  as  /£"(»  ^ 

"  Recevyd  of  Thomas  hackett  for  hys  lycense  for  pryntinge 
of  a  play  intituled  Rauf  Ruyster  Duster," 

and  the  unique  copy  of  the  play  which  has  come  down  to  us  has 
been  regarded  as  the  solitary  relic  of  this  edition.  Title-page  and 
colophon  are  lacking. 

Hackett,  however,  printed  between  October  (November  ?),  1560, 
and  July,  1589;  and  Arber  dates  the  unique  copy:  "?  1566." 

This  copy  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Eton  College.  On  the  first 
fly-leaf  are  written  the  words  :  "The  Gift  of  the  Rev'1  Tho8  Briggs 
to  Eton  Coll.  Library,  Decr  1818."  As  shown  above,  the  quota- 
tion of  the  "ambiguous"  letter  in  the  1553  edition  of  Wilson's 
Logique  speaks,  however,  in  favour  of  an  edition  earlier  than  that  of 
the  unique  copy  ;  and  this  earlier  edition  might  be  dated  "  1552?  ".2 

1  Professor  Hales,  in  his  essay  on  the  date  of  Roister  (Engliscbe  Stud/en,  18,  419)  quotes 
for  these  usury  laws  the  incomplete  account  of  them  in  Craik's  History  of  British  Commerce, 

1,   22,  231. 

The  law  of  1545  (so  dated  by  Ruffhead;  and  not  1546)  is  far  more  important  on  account 
of  its  clause  about  the  "  yearly  interest  "  than  of  that  about  the  ten  per  cent. 

2  To  Collier  has  been  given  the  credit  of  first  ("soon  after  1820")  connecting  Udall's 
name  with  Roister  Doister,  the  unique  copy  of  which  had  been  published  by  the  finder,  the 
Rev*.    Tho1.    Briggs,    in    1818.       But,   in  the  first   place,  Collier  could  not    have  identified 
the  "ambiguous"  letter  in  "  Wilson's  Art  of  Logic,  printed  by  Richard  Grafton,  1551,"  as 
he  says  he  did,  since  "The  rule  of  Reason,  contei  ||  nyng  the  Arte  of  ||  Logique,  set  forth  ||  in 
Englishe,  ||  by    Thomas  jj  Vuilson.  ||  An.     M.  1).     LI.     Joes    not   contain    the    quotation    from 
Roister  Doister   (copy   in   the   Bodleian   kindly  examined   for  me  by  Professor  Gayley),  neither 
does  the  edition  of  1552  (cf.  Arber).      On  folio  66  of  the  third  edition    (1553)    appears   for 
the  first  time  :    "  An   example  of  sot  he  doubtful  writing   whiche  by  reason  of  poincting   maie 


98  Nicholas  Udall 

Place  of  Roister  Doister  in  English  Literature.  — Roister  Doister 
is  the  only  specimen  of  Udall's  dramatic  art  preserved  by  Fate,  but 
it  is  sufficient  to  justify  us  in  assigning  to  the  author  his  place  as 
father  of  English  Comedy. 

The  causes  that  brought  a  "  Latinist,"  a  schoolmaster,  a  theo- 
logical writer  to  such  a  position  are  interesting  to  consider.  Pri- 
marily, of  course,  it  is  his  genius,  his  "  Froh-natur"  his  way  of 
looking  at  the  world,  and  his  art  of  representing  this  picture  of  the 
world,  to  which  we  owe  Roister  Doister,  but  besides  this  we  may 
be  certain  that  Udall's  classical  training,  the  condition  of  the  Latin 
School-comedy  of  his  time,  and,  finally,  his  clear  insight  into  the 
character  of  the  national  play  helped  him  to  the  place  that  he  holds. 

If  Udall  had  been  merely  a  pedantic  schoolmaster,  one  of  whose 
duties  it  was  to  superintend  an  annual  Christmas  play,  he  would 
have  been  satisfied  with  an  adaptation  of — let  us  say  —  the  Miles 
Gloriosus,  or  he  would  merely  have  translated  the  Miles  as  the  Andria 
had  been  translated  before  ;  perhaps  he  would  even  have  been  satis- 
fied with  a  performance  of  the  play  in  the  Latin.  On  the  other 
hand,  had  he  never  been  obliged  to  drill  boys  in  Terence,  his  plays 
would  have  remained  "  interludes  "  of  the  old  type,  and  at  best,  he 
would  now  receive  honourable  mention  by  the  side  of  Hcywood. 
It  was  his  very  position  as  teacher  of  the  classics,  his  humanism 
(apart  from  the  annual  necessity  of  advising  the  "  enterluders  "  at 
Christmas  time)  which  must  have  pointed  out  to  him  the  way  in 
which  the  "  enterlude "  might  be  outgrown,  the  way  that  would 
lead  to  a  new  category  of  plays  :  the  "  comedy." 

Udall  (if  the  prologue  to  Roister  Doister  is  his  own,  as  we  have 
no  reason  to  doubt) *  seems  to  have  been  somewhat  doubtful  at  first 
about  the  designation  of  his  play  ;  he  calls  it  at  the  beginning  "  thys 
enterlude  "  ;  but  he  realized  the  new  departure  which  he  had  taken, 
and  calls  it  later  "  Our  Comedie  or  Enterlude."  By  the  use  of  this 

haue  double  sense,  and  contrarie  meaning,  taken  out  of  an  entrelude  made  by  Nicolas  Vdal." 
And,  in  the  second  place,  Collier  had  been  anticipated,  in  part,  for  as  early  as  1748  reference 
had  been  made  to  the  passage  from  Wilson  by  Tanner,  who  writes  (Bibliotbeca,  s.  n.  ) :  In 
Thos.  Wilson's  Logica,  p.  69  [it  is  leaf  67  of  edition  I  567  in  my  possession]  sunt  quidem 
•versus  ambtgui  sensus  ex  Coma-Jia  yuadam  huius  Nic.  Uctalli  desumpti. 

1  With  this  opinion,  and  that  of  p.  90,  n.  4,  contrast  Fleay's  argument,  Hist.  Stage,  pp. 
59,  60.  Gen.  Ed. 


Nicholas  Udall  99 

word,  —  the  first  time  applied  correctly  to  an  English  comedy,— 
Udall  indicates  his  aspirations,  his  sources  and  classical  models  : 
those  plays  which  were  the  comedies  par  excellence,  the  comedies 
of  Terence,  and  —  especially  since  the  discovery  of  the  twelve 
"new"  plays  in  1429  —  those  of  Plautus.  Udall  shows  himself  a 
genuine  disciple  of  the  Renaissance ;  he  "  imitates "  in  that  true 
way  in  which  "  imitation  "  has  always  ultimately  proved  "  origi- 
nality "  :  he  shows  that  he  had  absorbed  the  spirit  of  the  Roman 
comedy,  that  he  fully  understood  the  easy  movement,  the  sparkling 
and  refined  dialogue,  the  succinct  but  full  delineation  of  character, 
and  the  clear  development  of  a  plot.  But  besides  all  this  he  pos- 
sessed enough  patriotic  feeling  not  to  overlook  the  merits  of  the 
modest  national  "  interlude "  of  England.  He  did  not  too  anx- 
iously avoid  carrying  out  here  and  there  even  a  farcical  motive ; 
but  with  the  higher  ideal  before  him,  he  succeeded  in  fusing  the 
classical  and  the  national  elements  into  a  new  category,  becoming 
thus  the  father  of  English  comedy. 

Udall's  position  appears  clearly  if  one  compares  his  work  with 
Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  on  the  one  hand,  and  —  regarding  them  as 
a  type  —  with  Hey  wood's  farces  on  the  other. 

The  good  taste  and  higher  art  of  Roister  Doister  are  at  once  evi- 
dent :  the  play  is  free  from  the  undeniable  vulgarity  of  Gammer 
Gurton,  and  in  delineation  of  character  is  distinctly  superior.  The 
plot,  simple  as  it  is,  is  never  as  meagre  as  in  the  clever  dialogues 
of  Heywood  ;  and  as  much  as  Udall  surpasses  Heywood  in  con- 
struction of  the  plot,  I  think  he  surpasses  him  in  delineation  of 
character.  For  even  if,  as  Ward  says,1  in  Heywood's  witty  plays, 
the  "  personified  abstractions  "  of  the  moralities  have  been  entirely 
superseded  by  "  personal  types,"  these  personal  types  have  not  yet 
matured  into  individual  persons,  into  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  as  they 
have  in  Udall's  play. 

I   take,  of  course,  for  granted   Udall's  absolute  superiority  over 
that  category  of  interludes  which  —  bastards  of  the  "  Moralities  " 
seem  to  have  had   no  other  purpose  than   to   introduce  dogmatical 

1  Ward  in  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.  26,  -$\-i.  Ward  says  that  in  Heywood's  Plays  the  "bridge 
had  been  built"  to  English  Comedy.  I  think  rather  that  this  bridge  was  a  temporary  struc- 
ture, waiting  to  be  replaced  by  the  more  solidly  planned  work  or  a  higher  architect. 


ioo  Nicholas  Udall 

moralizations,  seasoned  perhaps  with  a  tavern  scene  or  with  some 
other  farcical  coarseness,  and  at  best  ending  with  an  "  unmotived  " 
conversion  of  the  sinner  or  sinners. 

Plot  and  Characters.  —  Udall's  plot  is  so  simple  that  its  develop- 
ment becomes  clear  at  a  glance ;  it  consists  of  the  unsuccessful 
wooing  of  Ralph  Roister  Doister  for  the  hand  of  Dame  Christian 
Custance,  evolved  amid  various  entanglements,  and  ultimately  un- 
successful, not  so  much  because  Custance  is  at  the  time  of  Roister's 
first  advances  already  engaged  to  another  man,  as  because  Roister's 
folly  is  so  enormous  that  no  success  can  be  possible. 

Now  the  figure  of  an  avowed  fool  in  love  would  give  excellent 
scenes  for  a  farce,  but  would  not  yield  the  complications  of  charac- 
ter and  situation  necessary  for  a  comedy  ;  and  in  order  to  bring 
about  this  essential  complexity,  there  is  introduced  a  second  motive 
for  action  in  this  fool's  own  character,  —  that  of  vainglory.  There 
is  also  introduced  a  personage  who  shall  season  the  play  by  his  wit 
and  produce  the  necessary  entanglements.  This  is  Mathew  Mery- 
greeke, who  grows  gradually  under  the  poet's  hands,  until  he  occu- 
pies the  most  prominent  place  in  the  play,  at  least  as  far  as  our 
interest  in  the  different  characters  is  concerned.  Despite  all  that 
has  been  said  to  the  contrary,  Merygreeke  is  Udall's  own  creation, 
—  a  figure  in  itself  deserving  of  high  praise.  Undoubtedly  this 
character  was  at  first  conceived  as  a  mere  modern  parasite,  of  a 
much  higher  type,  however,  than  the  Sempronio,  for  instance  (in 
Calisto  and  Meliboea),  but  as  the  play  advanced  the  figure  outgrew 
its  original  limits,  and  although  in  the  first  scenes  Merygreeke  is 
scarcely  out  of  the  eggshell  of  the  parasite,  he  proves  very  soon  to 
be  a  new  character :  a  character  belonging  to  the  class  of  Pan- 
darus,  a  "  Friend  "  playing  the  part  of  kindly  Fate,  a  Vice  certainly 
mischievous  and  cruel  enough,  but  directing  everything  to  a  good 
end;  as  full  of  humour  and  fun  as  of  character,  and,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  heart,  of  good-nature. 

Merygreeke  comes  indeed  to  Roister  at  first  "  for  his  stomach's 
sake  "  and  wants  a  new  coat,  but  he  has  on  the  whole  only  a  few 
traits  of  the  parasite,1  and  these  might  be  left  out  without  injuring 

1  These  traits  as  well  as  the  practical  jokes  would,  of  course,  be  especially  enjoyed  by  the 
Eton  players  and  their  youthful  audience. 


Nicholas  Udall  101 

the  play  in  the  least.  As  soon  as  he  sees  Roister  in  love,  his  humour 
gains  the  upper  hand  ;  he  realizes  at  once  what  a  capital  source  of 
fun  this  "  love  "  on  the  part  of  a  vain  fool  might  become,  and  he 
determines  to  bring  about  such  complications  as  will  yield  the 
greatest  quantity  of  amusement.  His  purpose  may,  indeed,  at  first 
have  been  merely  egotistical,  to  have  the  fun  himself;  but  he  is 
forgiven  because  all  the  other  persons  of  the  play  —  as  well  as  the 
audience  —  are  liberally  invited  to  the  feast.  Merygreeke  may  ap- 
pear at  times  as  a  false  friend  and  thus  as  an  immoral  character,  but 
his  flattery  is  so  exaggerated,  his  lies  are  so  improbable,  so  enormous, 
so  amusing  to  all  sane  people,  —  Roister  so  fully  deserves  (indeed 
provokes)  the  cruel  treatment,  —  that  any  possible  wrath  of  a 
moralizing  censor  is  entirely  disarmed.  Supreme  folly  stands  out- 
side the  common  moral  order  of  things.  Even  if  Merygreeke  had 
not  disclosed  his  motives,  we  could  see  from  the  respect  which  is 
shown  him  by  Custance  and  Trusty,  that  he  is  far  from  being  a 
treacherous  parasite.  And  after  all  he  does  not  betray  his  friend. 
He  rather  helps  him  to  what  he  really  desires.  And  what  Roister 
most  desires  in  this  world  is,  after  all,  not  the  possession  of  the  fair 
widow,  but  the  satisfaction  of  his  vanity.  How  quickly  does  he 
forget  his  love  in  the  delusion  fostered  by  Merygreeke,  that  Good- 
luck  and  Custance  desire  to  live  in  peace  with  him  because  they 
fear  him.  The  lie  is  in  harmony  with  poetic  justice. 

Merygreeke  has  been  characterized 1  as  "  the  Artotrogos  of  Plau- 
tus,  the  standing  figure  of  the  parasite  of  the  Greek  new  comedy  and 
its  Latin  reproductions."  But,  though  Merygreeke  was  doubtless 
originally  planned  as  the  parasite  of  the  play,  and  though  here  and 
there  to  the  very  end  of  the  play  we  find  allusions  which  corrobo- 
rate this,  I  note,  first,  that  the  classical  parasite2  lacks  the  element 
of  modern  humour,  of  witty  but,  after  all,  good-natured  enjoyment  of 
the  mischief  which  he  stirs  up  •,  secondly,  that  Merygreeke  is  free 
from  endless  and  —  to  us  —  tedious  allusions  to  the  "  stomach  "; 
and,  thirdly,  from  the  vulgar,  and  almost  uninteresting,  selfishness, 
revealed  in  such  words  as  these  of  Gnatho  : 

1  Ward,  Hist.  Dram.  Lit.,  I,  257  (Lond.:    1899). 

2  Cf.  the  splendid  essay  on  the  Roman  Co/ax  and  Parasite  in  O.  Ribbeck's  Hist,  of  Roman 
Lit.   (Stuttgart,  1887),   I,  83  sqf. 


102  Nicholas  Udall 

Principio  ego  vos  credere  ambos  hoc  mi  vehementer  volo 
Me  buius  quicquid  faciam  id  facer e  maxume  causa  mea. 

I  may  be  mistaken,  but  I  cannot  find  that  the  classical  parasite  has 
any  fine  touch  of  the  humour  that  is  inseparable  from  "humanity," 
from  good  nature.  The  classical  parasite  is,  on  account  of  this 
deficiency,  distinctly  inferior  to  this  modern  creation. 

As  completely  as  in  Merygreeke's  case,  Udall  disarms  the  mor- 
alist in  the  case  of  Roister  himself,  whose  lying *  and  bragging, 
whose  cowardice,  matched  only  by  his  vanity,  cannot  possibly  be 
regarded  as  setting  a  bad  example,  because  they  have  reached 
dimensions  which  are  grotesque  and  plainly  ridiculous.  They  re- 
sult only  in  the  propagation  of  his  folly,  and  that  is  allowed  to  reap 
its  —  poor  —  external  fruit:  Roister  is  "invited"  to  the  banquet 
(and  Roister  has  constitutionally  a  good  "  stomach  "),  and  he  is 
made  to  believe  that  he  is  a  much  "  dreaded  lion."  Fate  has  for- 
tunately not  pressed  the  mirror  into  his  hands.  He  is  saved  the 
sight  of  the  ass's  ears  visible  to  every  one  else.2  And  as  kind  as 
Fate  is  his  "  friend "  Merygreeke,  who  never  reveals  to  him  his 
absolute  wretchedness,  and  who  has  to  the  last  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  Roister  a  "  glad  man."  Here  was  a  great  danger  for  a 
less  skilful  writer  than  Udall  —  a  danger  of  marring  our  enjoyment 
of  Merygreeke's  part  by  inserting  traits  of  a  finer  or  grosser  bru- 
tality, a  danger  of  spoiling  the  whole  feast  by  some  drop  of  malice. 
The  element  of  conscious  humiliation  is  absent ;  the  pathetic  is 
consequently  avoided. 

The  other  figures  of  the  play  are  kept  in  the  background  ;  even 
Custance,  and  Gawin  Goodluck,  who  comes  in  at  the  end  of  the 
play  to  give  the  coup  de  grace  to  Roister's  foolish  hopes.  As  a 
lover  Goodluck  is  hardly  a  success.  He  is  so  fish-blooded  that,  in 
a  scene  which  savours  of  a  judicial  procedure,  the  evidence  of  Trusty 
becomes  necessary  before  he  can  be  satisfied  of  the  fidelity  of  his 

1  "These   lies  are   like    their   father  —  gross   as   a    mountain,    open,    palpable." — Shak., 
/  Hen.   IV.  2,  4. 

2  Ward,  I.e.,  calls   Roister    "a   vain-glorious,    cowardly  blockhead,   of  whom  the   Pyrgo- 
polinices  of  Flautus  is  the  precise  prototype."      That  his  character  has  some  fine  pints,  mod- 
elled   after    the    Ten-ntian    Thraso,    is    shown    in    the    notes    (cf.    especially    the    last   scene). 
Roister's  character,  indeed,  is  the  least  original  of  the   play,  but  he  is  not   Udall's  favourite 
figure.      Udall  did  not  spend  as  much  labour  on  him  as  on  Merygreeke. 


Nicholas  Udall  103 

betrothed.  Goodluck  is  obviously  no  Romeo.  In  the  widow  ready 
to  marry  again  Udall  presents  a  good  study  of  character.  Cus- 
tance  is  a  well-to-do  London  city-wife  of  the  days  of  Henry  VIII. 
and  Edward  VI.,  ruling  like  a  queen  over  servants  who  themselves 
are  happily  introduced  and  capitally  delineated.  We  imagine  her 
neither  lean,  nor  pale,  but  rather  like  the  wife  of  Bath  —  like  her, 
resolute  and  substantial,  but  more  faithful.  She  is,  to  a  certain 
extent,  even  shrewd ;  she  enjoys  fun,  —  after  she  has  been  made  to 
see  it,  —  and  she  is  not  without  a  touch  of  sentimentality. 

Indeed,  to  Custance  Udall  has  assigned  the  only  serious  scene  in 
the  play,  Act  V.,  Scene  iii.  This  monologue  appears  pathetic,  and 
sounds  like  a  prayer  of  innocence,  extremely  well  justified  in  a 
woman  who  finds  herself  surrounded  by  difficulties  and  involved  in 
a  complication  which  seems  to  question  her  honour.  The  last 
words  of  the  complaint  indicate,  however,  that  Goodluck  would 
better  not  doubt  too  much,  because  Custance's  patience  might  reach 
a  limit,  and  her  natural  independence  might  sharply  bring  him  to 
his  senses.1  She  appears  in  that  very  scene  as  the  match  of  Good- 
luck,  who  will  be  very  happy  with  her  if  he  gets  her. 

Udall  shows  his  complete  superiority  over  his  predecessors  in 
these  delineations  of  character  even  more  than  in  the  creation  of 
the  plot.  Though  in  the  development  of  the  latter  everything  fits 
together  and  is  arranged  in  good  order  and  proportion,  it  is,  after 
all,  the  dramatis  persons  that  interest  us  most.  Udall's  persons  are 
men  and  women  of  flesh  and  blood,  interesting  and  amusing  living 
beings,  not  the  wax  figures  of  "  Sapience  "  or  "  Folly,"  "  Virtuous 
Living"  or  "  Counterfet  Countenance."  Udall's  persons  are  vastly 
superior  to  these  wooden  "  dialoguers,"  whom  one  feels  to  be  act- 
ing merely  for  a  school-bred  morality,  and  they  leave  the  coarse- 
grained but  witty  figures  even  of  Heywood's  farces  far  behind. 

If  anything,  his  persons  show  that  Udall  had  studied  his  Plautus 
and  Terence  as  a  clear  and  sharp  observer,2  and  that  he  had  learned 
from  them  where  the  originals  for  a  comedy  were  to  be  found  —  in 
life,  in  the  actual  world  surrounding  the  poet. 

1  This   possible   complication,  which  would   have  yielded  a  fine  scene,  seems   not   to    have 
occurred  to  Udall. 

2  In  this  respect  even  Jack  Juggler  deserves  credit.      I  rind  no  trace  of  Flautus  and  Ter- 
ence in  Heywood's  plays. 


104  Nicholas  Udall 

The  Present  Text  is  based  upon  Arber's  reprint  of  July  i,  1869, 
which  has  been  carefully  collated  by  Professor  Gayley  with  the 
unique  copy  in  the  library  of  Eton  College.  The  courtesy  of 
the  librarian,  F.  Warre  Cornish,  M.A.,  and  the  other  authorities 
of  Eton  College,  is  hereby  heartily  acknowledged.  In  the  pres- 
ent text  all  variations  from  the  original  are  inclosed  in  brackets. 
But,  in  uniformity  with  the  regulation  adopted  for  this  series,  j  and 
v  have  been  substituted  for  /  and  u  when  used  as  consonants,  and  u 
has  been  printed  for  v  when  used  as  a  vowel.  References  in  the  foot- 
notes to  previous  editions  are  thus  indicated  :  A.,  Arber's  reprint ; 
C.,  W.  D.  Cooper's  edition  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,  1847; 
H.,  Hazlitt's  Dodsley  (edition  in  Vol.  III.),  Lond.  1874;  M.,  Pro- 
fessor J.  M.  Manly's  edition  in  "Specimens  of  the  Pre-Shaksperean 
Drama,"  Vol.  II. ,  Boston,  1897.  References  to  the  Eton  copy 
are  indicated  by  E. 

EWALD  FLUGEL. 


ROISTER    DOISTER 

BY 

NICHOLAS   UDALL 


[The  Persons  of  the  Play 


RALPH   ROYSTER  DOYSTER,  "Miles. "J 

MATHEWE  MERYGREEKE,  bis  friend. 

GAWIN   GOODLUCKE,  London   Merchant,  affianced  to  Custance. 

TRISTRAM  TRUSTY,  bis  friend. 

DOBINET  DOUGHTIE,  servant  to  Royster. 

TOM  TRUPENIE,  servant  to  distance. 

SYM  SURESBY,  servant  to  Goodluck. 

HARPAX  and  other  Musicians  in  Royster's  service. 

SCRIVENER. 

DAME  CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE,  a  wealthy  widow. 

MAGE   MUMBLE  CRUST,  her  old  nurse. 

TIBET  TALK  APACE  )        .  ,      /-/-,, 

.  }•  maids  of  Lustance. 

ANNOT  ALYFACE       j 


THE   SCENE 
LONDON2! 


1  Cf.  stage-direction,  III,  iii,  83,  and  Appendix  B. 

2  St.  Paul's  is  mentioned,  II,  iv,  40  ;   Sym  Suresby  seems  to  come  directly  from  the  land- 
ing place  ;  the  house  of  Custance  might,  therefore,  safely  be  located  in  the  City  proper. 


Roister   Doister 


The   Prologue. 

What  Creature  is  in  health,  eyther  yong  or  olde,  A  ii 

But  som  mirth  with  modestie  wil  be  glad  to  use     ^r-,»U~<xt< 
As  we  in  thys  Enterlude  shall  now  unfolde, 
,  Wherin  all  scurilitie  we  utterly  refuse, 
Avoiding  such  mirth  wherin  is  abuse  : 
Knowing  nothing  more  comendable  for  a  mans  recreation 
Than  Mirth  which  is  used  in  an  honest  fashion  :  7 

For  Myrth  prolongeth  lyfe,  and  causeth  health. 

Mirth  recreates  our  spirites  and  voydeth  pensivenesse, 

Mirth  increaseth  amitie,  not  hindring  our  wealth, 

Mirth  is  to  be  used  both  of  more  and  lesse, 

Being  mixed  with  vertue  in  decent  comlynesse. 

As  we  trust  no  good  nature  can  gainsay  the  same  : 

Which  mirth  we  intende  to  use,  avoidyng  all  blame.  14 

The  wyse  Poets  long  time  heretofore, 

Under  merrie  Comedies  secretes  did  declare, 

Wherein  was  contained  very  vertuous  lore, 

With  mysteries  and  forewarnings  very  rare. 

Suche  to  write  neither  Plautus 1  nor  Terence  dyd  spare, 

Whiche  among  the  learned2  at  this  day  beares3  the  bell : 4 

These  with  such  other  therein  dyd  excell.  21 

1  Cf.  Prol.  to  Jack  Juggler. 

2  Cf.  the  "  lerned  men  "  in  the  Prol.  to  the  English  Andria,  circa  1520. 
8  The  northern  plural. 

*  To  be  the  bell-wether,  to  excel. 

107 


io8  Roister  Doister 


[ACT. 


Our  Co  me  die  or  Enterlude  which  we  intende  to  play. 
Is  named  Royster  Doyster  in  deede. 
Which  against  the  vayne  glorious  doth  invey, 
Whose  humour  the  roysting  sort  continually  doth  feede. 
Thus  by  your  pacience  we  intende  to  proceede 
In  this  our  Enterlud_e_by  Gods  leave  and  grace, 
And  here  I  take  my  leave  for  a  certaine  space.  28 

FINIS. 


Actus.  i.      Scaena.  i. 
MATHEWE  MERYGREEKE.      He  entretb  singing.  ~  Auk 

As  long  ly  veth  the  mery  man  (they  say)  l 

As  doth  the  sory  man,  and  longer  by  a  day. 

Yet  the  Grassehopper  for  all  his  Sommer  pipyng, 

Sterveth  in  Winter  wyth  hungrie  gripyng, 

Therefore  an  other  sayd  sawe  doth  men  advise,  5 

That  they  be  together  both  mery  and  wise. 

Thys  Lesson  must  I  practise,  or  else  ere  long, 

Wyth  mee  Mathew  Merygreeke  2  it  will  be  wrong. 

In  deede  men  so  call  me,  for  by  him  that  us  bought, 

What  ever  chaunce  betide,  I  can  take  no  thought,  10 

Yet  wisedome  woulde  that  I  did  my  selfe  bethinke 

Where  to  be  provided  this  day  of  meate  and  drinke  : 

For  knowe  3  ye  that  for  all  this  merie  note  of  mine, 

He  might  appose4  me  now  that  should  aske  where  I  dine. 

My  lyving  lieth  heere  and  there,  of  Gods  grace,  15 

Sometime  wyth  this  good  man,  sometyme  in  that  place, 

Sometime  Lewis  Loytrer5  biddeth  me  come  neere, 

Somewhyles  Watkin  Waster  maketh  us  good  cheere, 

1  Cf.  Camden's  Pro-verbs,  p.  264;    Ray's  Pro-verbs,  p.   132. 

2  Roger  ban  temps :  a  mad  rascal,  a  merry  greek  ;    Gringalct :  a  merry  grig  .  .  .  rogue,  etc. 
(  Cotgrave ) . 

3  A.  has  '  know.' 

4  See  Like  "will  to  Like,  Dodsley,  3  :    337. 

5  Cf.   Robert  the  Ryfelar,  etc.,  in   Pierce  Plowman;   Peter  Piebaker,  etc.,  in   Tbersytes  j 
Margery  Mylkeducke,  etc.,  in  Skelton. 


sc.  i]  "  Roister  Doister  \  09 

Sometime  Davy  Diceplayer  l  when  he  hath  well  cast 

Keepeth  revell  route  as  long  as  it  will  last.  20 

Sometime  Tom  Titivile'2  maketh  us  a  feast, 

Sometime  with  sir  Hugh  Pye  I  am  a  bidden  gueast, 

Sometime  at  Nichol  Neverthrives  I  get  a  soppe, 

Sometime  I  am  feasted  with  Bryan  Blinkinsoppe,8 

Sometime  I  hang  on  Hankyn4  Hoddydodies  sleeve,  25 

But  thys  day  on  Ralph  Royster.Dovster&.  by  hys  leeve. 

For  truely  of  all  men  he  is  my  chiefe  banker 

Both  for  meate  and  money,  and  my  chiefe  shootanker.5    ff 

For,  sobtn  Roister  Doister  in  that  he  doth  say,6 

And  require  what  ye  will  ye  shall  have  no  nay.  30 

But  now  of  Roister  Doister  somewhat  to  expresse,  A  iii 

That  ye  may  esteeme  him  after  hys  worthinesse, 

In  these  twentie  townes  and  seke  them  throughout, 

Is  not  the  like  stocke,  whereon  to  graffe  a  loute. 

All  the  day  long  is  he  facing"  and  craking8  35 

Of  his  great  actes  in  fighting  and  fraymaking  : 

But  when  Roister  Doister  is  put  to  his  proofe, 

To  keepe  the  Queenes  9  peace  is  more  for  his  behoofe. 

If  any  woman  smyle  or  cast  on  hym  an  eye, 

Up  is  he  to  the  harde  eares  in  love  by  and  by,  40 

And  in  all  the  hotte  haste  must  she  be  hys  wife, 

Else  farewell  hys  good  days,  and  farewell  his  life, 

Maister  Raufe  Royster  Doyster  is  but  dead  and  gon 

Excepte  she  on  hym  take  some  compassion, 

Then  chiefe  of  counsell,  must  be  Mathcw  Merygreeke,        45 

What  if  I  for  mariage  to  suche  an  one  seeke  ? 

1  Cf.  More's  lines  to  Davy  the  dycer  (fforh,  p.   1433*).  2  See  Appendix  C. 

8  Cf.  Ben  Jonson's  Neiu  Inn,  II.  ii. 

4  Cf.  Hankin  boby  in  The  rsytcs ;  Handy-dandy  in  P.  Plowman;  Huddy-peke  in  Four 
Elements,  in  Skelton,  etc.  ;  ib.  hoddy  poule  (  =  "  dunder-head,"  Dyce). 

6  "This  ointment  is  even  shot-anchor,"  Heywood's  Four  PP.  (  =  last  resort). 

6  Cf.  11.  47,  49  ;  for  the  whole  scene  cf.  Plautus,  Miles  Glor.  \.  31  syj.:  Et  adsentandumst 
quicquid  bic  mentibitur  ,•  also  Ter.  Eunucbut,  II.  ii,  252  et  uq. 

1  Cf.  Palsgrave,  542  :   "  I  face  as  one  dothe  that  brauleth."  8  boasting. 

9  Of   course   '  kinges '   if  written    before  July    7,    1553;     probably  changed  to   'Queen' 
(=  Elizabeth)  by  the  printer.       (Flcay  conjectures,  Hist.  Si^gf,  p.  59,  that  R.  D.  was  revived 
March  8,  1561  ;   the  play  having  been  rewritten  from  an  Edward  VI.  interlude.      Gen.  Ed.) 


1  1  o  Roister  Doister  ' 


[ACT. 


Then  must  I  sooth  it,  what  ever  it  is  : 

For  what  he  sayth  or  doth  can  not  be  amisse, 

Holde  up  his  yea  and  nay,  be  his  nowne1  white2  sonne, 

Prayse  and  rouse  him  well,  and  ye  have  his  heart  wonne,      50 

For  so  well  liketh  he  his  owne  fonde  fashions 

That  he  taketh  pride  of  false  commendations. 

But  such  sporte  have  I  with  him  as  I  would  not  leese, 

Though  I  should  be  bounde  to  lyve  with  bread  and  cheese. 

For  exalt  hym,  and  have  hym  as  ye  lust  in  deede  :  55 

Yea  to  hold  his  finger  in  a  hole  for  a  neede. 

I  can  with  a  worde  make  him  fayne  or  loth, 

I  can  with  as  much  make  him  pleased  or  wroth, 

I  can  when  I  will  make  him  merv  and  glad, 

I  can  when  me  lust  make  him  sory  and  sad,  60 

I  can  set  him  in  hope  and  eke  in  dispaire, 

I  can  make  him  speake  rough,  and  make  him  speake  faire. 

But  I  marvell  I  see  hym  not  all  thys  same  day, 

I  wyll  seeke  him  out :    But  loe  he  commeth  thys  way, 

I  have  yond  espied  hym  sadly  comming,  A  iii  b  65 

And  in  love  for  twentie  pounde,  by  hys  glommyng. 

Actus.  i.     Scaena.  ii. 
RAPE   ROISTER  DOISTER.      MATHEW  MERYGREEKE. 

R.  Royster.    Come  death  when  thou  wilt,  I  am  weary  of  my  life. 

M.  Mery.    I  tolde  you  I,  we  should  wowe  another  wife. 

R.  Royster.    Why  did  God  make  me  suche  a  goodly  person  ? 

M.  Mery.    He  is  in3  by  the  weke,  we  shall  have  sport  anon. 

R.  Royster.    And  where  is  my  trustie  friende  Mathew  Merygreeke  ?  5 

M.  Mery.    I  wyll  make  as  I  sawe  him  not,  he  doth  me  seeke. 

R.  Roister.    I  have  hym  espyed  me  thinketh,  yond  is  hee, 

Hough  Mathew  Merygreeke  my  friend,  a  worde  with  thee.4 

1  The  'n'  transferred  from  '  myne  '   (my  nowne).      Cf.  nuncle,  etc. 

2  Cf.  Like  will  to  Like,  329  ;  Leland  calls  Udall  niveum  .  .  .  sodalcm  ;  Cooper's  ed.  XXVII. 
8  Heywood's  Pro-v.  ;   Lear,  V.  iii,   15. 

4  R.  R.  D.  addresses  M.  with  'thou'   'thee,'  whereas  M.    uses  —  on  the  whole — 'you, 
ye  '  (to  R.  R.  D.)  ;  cf.  Skeat's  William  of  Pa/erne,  XLI.  note  ;  Zupitza's  Guy,  v.  356,  note. 


sc.  n]  Roister  Doister  \  \  \ 

M.  Mery.    I  wyll  not  heare  him,  but  make  as  I  had  haste, 

Farewell  all  my  good  friendes,  the  tyme  away  dothe  waste,  10 

And  the  tide  they  say,  tarieth  for  no  man. 
R.  Roister.    Thou   must  with  thy  good  counsell   helpe  me  if  thou 

can. 
M.  Mery.    God  keepe  thee  worshypfull  Maister  Roister  Doister, 

And  fare  well  the  lustie  Maister  Roister  Doister. 
R.  Royster.    I  muste  needes  speake  with  thee  a  worde  or  twaine.  15 
M.  Mery.    Within  a  month  or  two  I  will  be  here  againe, 

Negligence  in  greate  affaires  ye  knowe  may  marre  all. 
R.  Roister.    Attende  upon  me  now,  and  well  rewarde  thee  I  shall. 
M.  Mery.    I  have  take  my  leave,  and  the  tide  is  well  spent. 
R.  Roister.    I  die  except  thou  helpe,  I  pray  thee  be  content,          20 

Doe  thy  parte  wel  nowe,  and  aske  what  thou  wilt, 

For  without-  thy  aide  my  matter  is  all  spilt. 
M.  Mery.    Then  to  serve  your  turne  I  will  some  paines  take, 

And  let  all  myne  owne  affaires  alone  for  your  sake. 
R.  Royster.    My  whole  hope  and  trust  resteth  onely  in  thee.          25 
M.  Mery.    Then  can  ye  not  doe  amisse  what  ever  it  bee. 
R.  Royster.   Gramercies  Merygreeke,  most  bounde  to  thee  I  am.      A  iv 
M.  Mery.    But  up  with  that  heart,  and  speake  out  like  a  ramme, 

Ye  speake  like  a  Capon  that  had  the  cough  now  : 

Bee  of  good  cheere,  anon  ye  shall  doe  well  ynow.  30 

R.  Royster.    Upon  thy  comforte,  I  will  all  things  well  handle. 
M.  Mery.    So  loe,  that  is  a  breast  to  blowe  out  a  candle. 

But  what  is  this  great  matter  I  woulde  faine  knowe, 

We  shall  fynde  remedie  therefore  I  trowe. 

Doe  ye  lacke  money  ?  ye  knowe  myne  olde  offers,  35 

Ye  have  always  a  key  to  my  purse  and  coffers. 
R.  Royster.    I  thanke  thee:   had  ever  man  suche  a  frende  ? 
M.  Mery.    Ye  gyve  unto  me  :   I  must  needes  to  you  lende. 
R.  Royster.    Nay  I  have  money  plentie  all  things  to  discharge.1 
M.  Mery  [aside].    That  knewe   I   ryght  well  when  I  made  offer  so 
large.  40 

R.  Royster.    But  it  is  no  suchc  matter.2 

1  Cf.  Mi/es,  v.    1063. 

2  The  first  half  line  is  not  assigned  to  R.  R.  D.  in  E.  and  A.;  but  it  should  be.     Gen.  EJ. 


1 1 2  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  l 

M.  Mery.    What  is  it  than  ? 

Are  ye  in  daunger  of  debte  to  any  man  ? 

If  ye  be,  take  no  thought  nor  be  not  afraide, 

Let  them  hardly  l  take  thought  how  they  shall  be  paide. 

R.  Royster.    Tut  I  owe  nought.  45 

M.  Mery.    What  then  ?   fear  ye  imprisonment  ? 

R.  Royster.    No. 

M.  Mery.    No  I  wist  ye  offende  not  so,2  to  be  shent. 

But  if  [y]e3  had,  the  Toure  coulde  not  you  so  holde, 
But  to  breake  out  at  all  times  ye  would  be  bolde. 
What  is  it  ?   hath  any  man  threatned  you  to  beate  ? 

R.  Royster.    What  is  he  that  durst  have  put  me  in  that  heate  ?      50 
He  that  beateth  me,  by  his  armes,4  shall  well  fynde, 
That  I  will  not  be  farre  from  him  nor  runne  behinde. 

M.  Mery.    That  thing  knowe  all  men  ever  since  ye  overthrewe, 
The  fellow  of  the  Lion  which  Hercules  slewe.5 
But  what  is  it  than?  55 

R.  Royster.    Of  love  I  make  my  mone. 

M.  Mery.      Ah  this  foolishe  a6  love,  wilt  neare  let  us  alone? 
But  bicause  ye  were  refused  the  last  day, 
Ye  said  ye  woulde  nere  more  be  intangled  that  way : 
"  I  would  medle  no  more,  since  I  fynde  all  so  unkinde,"  ' 

R.  Royster.    Yea,  but  I  can  not  so  put  love  out  of  my  minde.        60 

Math.  Mer.    But  is  your  love  tell  me  first,  in  any  wise,  A  i\  /> 

In  the  way  of  Manage,  or  of  Merchandise  ? 
If  it  may  otherwise  than  lawfull  be  founde, 
Ye  get  none  of  my  helpe  for  an  hundred  pounde. 

R.  Royster.    No  by  my  trouth  I  would  have  hir  to  my  Wife.         65 

M.  Mery.    Then  are  ye  a  good  man,  and  God  save  your  life, 
And  what  or  who  is  she,  with  whome  ye  are  in  love  ? 

R.  Royster.    A  woman  whome  I  knowe  not  by  what  meanes  to  move, 

1  certainly  ;   cf.  'hardily,'  Chauc.   C.   T.  Pfol.  \.   156. 

2  E.  has  the  comma  after  'offende.' 

3  K.  misprints  be  for  '  ye  '  ;   corrected  by  C.  and  H. 

4  An  oath  =  by  God's  armes;   cf.  V.  vi,  22. 

5  Cf.    Tbersytes,  Dodsley,   I,  403. 

6  Cf.  Phil  &c.  Diet.  s.v.  A  prep.  In;   C.  and  H.  drop  the  'a.' 
'  The  quotation  marks  are  the  editor's. 


sc.  n]  Roister  Doister  \  \  3 

M.  Mery.    Who  is  it  ? 

R.  Royster.    A  woman  yond. 

M.  Mery.    What  is  hir  name  ? 

R.  Royster.    Hir  yonder.  70 

M.  Mery.    Who1  [?] 

R.  Royster.    Mistresse  ah  — 

M.  Mery.    Fy  fy  for  shame  [!] 

Love  ye,  and  know  not  whome  ?  but  hir  yonde,  a  Woman, 
We  shall  then  get  you  a  Wyfe,  I  can  not  tell  whan. 

R.  Royster.    The  faire  Woman,  that  supped  wyth  us  yesternyght  — 
And  I  hearde  hir  name  twice  or  thrice,  and  had  it  ryght. 

M.  Mery.    Yea,  ye  may  see  ye  nere  2  take  me  to  good  cheere  with 
you,  75 

If  ye  had,  I  coulde  have  tolde  you  hir  name  now. 

R.  Royster.    I   was   to   blame   in   deede,  but   the   nexte   tyme   per- 

chaunce : 
And  she  dwelleth  in  this  house. 

M.  Mery.    What  Christian  Custance. 

R.  Royster.    Except  I  have  hir  to  my  Wife,  I  shall  runne  madde. 

M.  Mery.    Nay  unwise  perhaps,  but  I  warrant  you  for  madde.      80 

R.  Royster.    I  am  utterly  dead  unlesse  I  have  my  desire. 

M.  Mery.    Where  be  the  bellowes  that  blewe  this  sodeine  fire  ? 

R.  Royster.    I  heare  she  is  worthe  a  thousande  pounde  and  more. 

M.  Mery.    Yea,  but  learne  this  one  lesson  of  me  afore, 

An  hundred  pounde  of  Marriage  money  doubtlesse,  85 

Is  ever  thirtie  pounde  sterlyng,  or  somewhat  lesse, 
So  that  hir  Thousande  pounde  yf  she  be  thriftie, 
Is  muche  neere3  about  two  hundred  and  fiftie, 
Howebeit  wowers  and  Widowes  are  never  poore. 

R.  Royster.    Is  she  a  Widowe  ?  4     I  love  hir  better  therefore.         90 

M.  Mery.    But  I  heare  she  hath  made  promise  to  another. 

R.  Royster.    He  shall  goe  without  hir,  and5  he  were  my  brother. 

M.  Mery.    I  have  hearde  say,  I  am  right  well  advised, 
That  she  hath  to  Gawyn  Goodlucke  promised. 

R.  Royster.    What  is  that  Gawyn  Goodlucke  ?  B  i      95 

1  E.,  'Whom.'  8  Middle  Kngl.  comparative;  cf.  near,  ner,  etc. 

2  never ;  C.,  'ne're';   H.,  'ne'er.'       4  Cf.  Flautus,  Miles,  965.  6  'an.' 


1 1 4  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  i 

M.  Mery.    a  Merchant  man. 

R.  Royster    Shall    he    speedc    afore   me  ?    nay  sir  by   sweete  Sainct 

Anne. 

Ah  sir,  Backare  quod  Mortimer  to  his  sowe,1 
I  wyll  have  hir  myne  owne  selfe  I  make  God  a  vow. 
For  I  tell  thee,  she  is  worthe  a  thousande  pounde. 

M.  Mery.    Yet  a  fitter  wife  for  your  maship2  might  be  founde  :     100 
Suche  a  goodly  man  as  you,  might  get  one  wyth  lande,3 
Besides  poundes  of  golde  a  thousande  and  a  thousande, 
And  a  thousande,  and  a  thousande,  and  a  thousande, 
And  so  to  the  summe  of  twentie  hundred  thousande, 
Your  most  goodly  personage  is  worthie  of  no  lesse.4  105 

R.  Royster.    I  am  sorie  God  made  me  so  comely  doubtlesse,  5 
For  that  maketh  me  eche  where  so  highly  favoured, 
And  all  women  on  me  so  enamoured.6 

M.  Mery.    Enamoured  quod   you  ?   have  ye  spied  out  that  ? 

Ah  sir,  mary  nowe  I  see  you  know  what  is  what.  IIO 

Enamoured  ka  ?7  mary  sir  say  that  againe, 
But  I  thought  not  ye  had  marked  it  so  plaine. 

R.  Royster.    Yes,  eche  where  they  gaze  all  upon  me  and  stare. 

M.  Mery    Yea  malkyn,  I  warrant  you  as  muche  as  they  dare. 

And  ye  will  not  beleve  what  they  say  in  the  streete,  115 

When  your  mashyp  passeth  by  all  such  as  I  meete, 

That  sometimes  I  can  scarce  finde  what  aunswere  to  make. 

Who  is  this  (sayth  one)  sir  Launcelot  du  lake?* 

Who  is  this,  greate  Guy^  of  Warwike,  sayth  an  other? 

No  (say  I)  it  is  the  thirtenth  Hercules  brother.  120 

Who  is  this  ?  noble  Hector  of  Troy,  sayth  the  thirde  ? 

No,  but  of  the  same  nest  (say  I)  it  is  a  birde. 

1  Cf.  Heywood's  Pro-verbs,  1.  ch.    1 1   (72)  ;    300  Epigrams,  158. 

2  mastership;   see  1.   1 1 6,  etc.  ;    cf.   '  ientman,'  III.  v,  8  ;    '  gemman,'  etc. 

3  Cf.  Plaut.  Miles,  1061. 

*  Cf.  ib.  :  Neu  ecastor  nimis  uilist  tandem. 
6  Cf.  ib.  68,  et  passim  ;  and  Terent.   Eunuch.  V.  viii,  62. 
6  Cf.  Plaut.   Aliles,   1264,  and  the  whole  of  the  first  scene. 

7Cf.  <KoI,'  'Koshe,1  III.  iii,  21,  355    '  Ko  you,'  III.  iv,  131;    Pericles,   II.   i,   82; 
"  Die  Ke-tha  ?  "    'company  quotha?'      Four  Elements  [Dodslcy,   I,  23]. 
B  Cf.    Tbenites,  [Uodsley,  i,  30,9,  400]. 
9  E.,  <Cuy.' 


sc.  n]  Roister  Doister  1 1 5 

Who  is  this?  greate  Goliah,  Sampson,  or  Colbrande?1 

No  (say  I)  but  it  is  a  brute'2  of  the  Alie3  lande. 

Who  is  this?  greate  Alexander?*  or  Charle  le  Maigne?         125 

No,  it  is  the  tenth  Worthie,  say  I  to  them  agayne: 

I  knowe  not  if  I  sayd  well. 

R.  Royster.    Yes  for  so  I  am. 

M.    Mery.    Yea,    for    there    were    but    nine    worthies    before    ye 
came.  B  i  b 

To  some  others,  the  third  Cato^  I  doe  you  call. 
And  so  as  well  as  I  can  I  aunswere  them  all.  130 

Sir  I  pray  you,  what  lorde  or  great  gentleman  is  this  ? 
Maister  Ralph  Roister  Doister  dame  say  I,  ywis. 
O  Lorde  (sayth  she  than)  what  a  goodly  man  it  is, 
Woulde  Christ  I  had  such  a  husbande  as  he  is. 
O  Lorde  (say  some)  that  the  sight  of  his  face  we  lacke:6    135 
It  is  inough  for  you  (say  I)  to  see  his  backe. 
His  face  is  for  ladies  of  high  and  noble  parages.7 
With  whome  he  hardly  scapeth  great  mariages. 
With  muche  more  than  this,  and  much  otherwise. 

R.  Royster.    I  can  thee  thanke  that  thou  canst  suche  answeres  de- 
vise: 140 
But  I  perceyve  thou  doste  me  throughly  knowe. 

M.  Mery.    I  marke  your  maners  for  myne  owne  learnyng  I  trowe, 
But  suche  is  your  beautie,  and  suche  are  your  actes, 
Suche  is  your  personage,  and  suche  are  your  factes,8 
That  all  women  faire  and  fowle,  more  and  less,  145 

They 9  eye  you,  they  lubbe 10  you,  they  talke  of  you  doubt- 
lesse, 

1  diabolicac  naturae  ;   see  Guy  of  Warwick,  v.  9945,  etc. 

2  Brutus,  of  the  British,  Welsh  or  Arthurian  story,  hence  generally  a  hero  [Murray]. 

3  '  Alie '  =  Hali,  Haly,  Holy  ?  or  Alye  =  affinis  =  of  the  neighbouring  country  ? 

4  Cf.  Plaut.  Miles,  777;   Achilles,  ib.  1054. 

6  Tertius  e  caelo  cecidit  Cato,  Juven.  Sat.  2,  40. 
«  Cf.  Plaut.  Allies,  65. 

7  Cf.   "a  prince  of  highe  parage,"   Chester  Plays,  I,   157. 

8  Cf.  Caxton's  "  faytes  of  armes  "  (  Prol.  Eneydos],  the  M.  L.  "  facta  guerrae,  armorum. " 

9  E.,' They'  (not  '  That,'  as  A.  reads). 

10  love;  cf.  III.  iv,  99.      Baby-talk?  or  the  language  of  the   Dutch  'minions'  ?      Hazlitt 
says  :  a  colloquialism  still  in  use.      But  the  dictionaries  are  silent. 


1 i 6  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  i 

Your  p  [Peasant  looke  maketh  them  all  merie, 

Ye  passe  not  by,  but  they  laugh  till  they  be  werie, 

Yea  and  money  coulde  I  have[,]  the  truthe  to  tell, 

Of  many,  to  bryng  you  that  way  where  they  dwell.  150 

R.  Rovster.    Merygreeke  tor  this  thy  reporting  well  of  mee  : 

M.  Mery.    What  shoulde  I  else  sir,  it  is  my  duetie  pardee  : 

R.  Royster.    I  promise  thou  shalt  not  lacke,  while  I  have  a  grote. 

M.  Mery.    Faith  sir,  and  I  nere  had  more  nede  of  a  newe  cote. 

R.  Royster.    Thou   shake   have  one  to  morowe,  and  golde  for    to 
spende.  155 

M.  Mery.    Then  I  trust  to  bring  the  day  to  a  good  ende. 
For  as  for  mine  owne  parte  having  money  inowe, 
I  could  lyve  onely  with  the  remembrance  of  you. 
But  nowe  to  your  Widowe  whome  you  love  so  hotte. 

R.  Royster.    By  cocke  thou  sayest  truthe,  I  had  almost  forgotte.     160 

M.  Mery.    What  if  Christian  Custance  will  not  have  you  what  ? 

R.  Roister.    Have  me  ?    yes  I  warrant  you,1  never  doubt  of  that, 
I  knowe  she  loveth  me,  but  she  dare  not  speake.  B  ii 

M.  Mery.    In  deede  meete  it  were  some  body  should  it  breake. 

R.  Roister.    She  looked  on  me  twentie  tymes  yesternight,  165 

And  laughed  so. 

M.  Mery.    That  she  coulde  not  sitte  upright, 

R.  Roister.    No  faith  coulde  she  not. 

M.  Mery.    No  even  such  a  thing  I  cast.2 

R.  Roister.    But  for  wowyng  thou  knowest  women   are  shamefast. 
But  and  she  knewe  my  minde,  I  knowe  she  would  be  glad, 
And  thinke  it  the  best  chaunce  that  ever  she  had.  170 

M.  Mery.    Too3  hir  then  like  a  man,  and  be  bolde  forth   to  starte, 
Wowers  never  speede  well,  that  have  a  false  harte. 

R.  Roister.    What  may  I  best  doe? 

M.  Mery.    Sir  remaine  ye  a  while  [here  4]  ? 

Ere  long  one  or  other  of  hir  house  will  appere. 

Ye  knowe  my  minde.  175 

1  R.  uses  'you'  ;    cf.  I.  ii,  8. 

2  Cf.   Palsgrave,  477,  "Je  revolve." 
8Cf.  I.  iv,  iii,  etc.,  C.  &  H.   'To.1 

4  Not  in  E.  ;   added  by  C.      In  E.,  the  comma  is  after  '  while.' 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  1 1 7 

R.  Royster.    Yea  now  hardly1  lette  me  alone. 

M.  Mery.    In  the  meane  time  sir,  if  you  please,  I  wyll  home, 
And  call  your  Musitians,2  for  in  this  your  case 
It  would  sette  you  forth,  and  all  your  wowyng  grace, 
Ye  may  not  lacke  your  instrumentes  to  play  and  sing. 

R.  Royster.    Thou  knowest  I  can  doe  that.  1 80 

M.  Mery.    As  well  as  any  thing. 

Shall  I  go  call  your  folkes,  that  ye  may  shewe  a  cast?3 

R.  Royster.    Yea  runne  I  beseeche  thee  in  all  possible  haste. 

M.  Mery.    I  goe.  Exeat. 

R.  Royster.    Yea  for  I  love  singyng  out  o_f  measure^ 

It  comforteth  my  spirites  and  doth  me  great  pleasure.  185 

But   who  commeth   forth  yond   from   my  swete   hearte  Cus- 

tance  ? 
My  matter  frameth  well,  thys  is  a  luckie  chaunce. 


Actus.  i.     Scaena  iii. 

MAGE  MUMBLE  CRUST,  4  spinning  on  the  distajfe.      TIBET  TALK  APACE,  sow- 
yng.      A  KNOT  ALYFACE,   knittyng.      R.  ROISTER. 

M.  Mumbl.  If  thys  distaffe  were  spoonne[,]  Margerie  Mumble- 
crust  [ — ] 

Tib.   Talks'    Where  good  stale  ale  is  will  drinke  no  water  I  trust. 

M.  Mumbl.  Dame  Custance  hath  promised  us  good  ale  and  white 
bread.6 

Tib.  Talk.  If  she  kepe  not  promise,  I  will  beshrewe  hir  head  :  B  ii  b 
But  it  will  be  starke  nyght  before  I  shall  have  done.  5 

R.  Royster  [aside] .  I  will  stande  here  a  while,  and  talke  with  them 
anon, 

1  Cf.  I.  ii,  44;   IV.  vi,  7. 

2  Cf.  Reinhardstoettner,   P/autus,  etc.,  671  :    Cafitano  Spa-vcnto  -viene  con  Ii  musici  per  far 
una  mattinata  a  Isabella. 

3  specimen. 

4  On  Mumblecrust,  etc.,  sec  Appendix  D. 
6  Interrupting  Mage. 

6  Better  fare  than   usual.      See    Harrison's   Description   of  Eng/.  in   Holinshed's  Cbron.   I, 
168   (ed.  1587). 


1 1 8  Roister  Doister  rACT.  l 

I  heare  them  speake  of  Custance,  which  doth  my  heart  good, 
To  heare  hir  name  spoken  doth  even  comfort  my  blood. 
M.  Mumbl.    Sit  downe  to  your  worke  Tibet  like  a  good  girle. 
Tib.   Talk.    Nourse  medle  you  with  your  spyndle  and  your  whirle,  10 
No  haste  but  good,  Madge  Mumblecrust,  for  whip  and  whurre  l 
The  olde  proverbe  doth  say,  never  made  good  furre. 
M.  Mumbl.    Well,   ye   wyll    sitte   downe   to    your  worke   anon,   I 

trust. 

Tib.  Talk.    Soft  fire  maketh  sweete  make,2  good  Madge  Mumble- 
crust. 

M.  Mumbl.    And    sweete    make    maketh    joly    good    ale    for    the 

nones.  15 

Tib.  Talk.    Whiche  will  slide  downe  the  lane  without  any  bones. 

Cantet? 

Olde  browne  bread  crustes  must  have  much  good   mumblyng, 
But  good  ale  downe  your  throte  hath  good  easie  tumbling. 
R.  Royster  \_aside\ .     The    jolyest  wench    that    ere   I  hearde,  little 

mouse,  — 

May  I  not  rejoice  that  she  shall  dwell  in  my  house?  20 

Tib.  Talk.    So  sirrha,  nowe  this  geare  beginneth  for  to  frame. 
M.  Mumbl.    Thanks  to  God,  though  your  work  stand  stil,  your 

tong  is  not  lame 
Tib.  Talk.    And  though  your  teeth  be  gone,  both  so  sharpe  and  so 

fine 

Yet  your  tongue  can  renne  on  patins4  as  well  as  mine. 
M.  Mumbl.    Ye  were  not  for  nought  named  Tyb  Talke  apace.    25 
Tib.  Talk.    Doth  my  talke    grieve    you  ?     Alack,   God  save   your 

grace. 

M.  Mumbl.    I  holde5  a  grote  ye  will  drinke  anon  for  this  geare. 
Tib.   Talk.    And  I  wyll  pray  you  the  stripes  for  me  to  beare. 

1  Note  the  fondness  for  proverbs,  a  trait  taken  from  life  and  often  to  be  found  in  later  plays. 
—  Sherwood:   To  whurre,  whurle    (or  yarre)  as  a   dog,   Grander  comme  un  cbien.      Cooper: 
scolding.      It  is  perhaps  =r  whirr,  whirret  (slashing,  slash)  ? 

2  Cf.  III.  iii,  102  ;    Heywood's   Proverbs,    I,   ch.   2    (p.    6);    Camden's   Proverbs,  276, 
277,  etc. 

3  Apparently  vv.  17,  18. 

4  Heywood's  Pro-verbs,  2,  ch.  7.      Fatten  :  a  wooden  shoe  that  made  a  great  clattering. 
6  Wager;   cf.  G.   G.  N.,  I.  iii,  20  j   I.  iv,  47. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  \  \  9 

M.  Mumbl.    I  holde  a  penny,  yc  will  drink  without  a  cup. 

Tib.   Talk.    Wherein  so  ere  ye  drinke,  I  wote  ye  drinke  all  up.     30 

An.  Alyface^    By    Cock   and    well    sowed,    my    good    Tibet   Talke 

apace. 

Tib.  Talk.    And  ecu  as  well  knitte  my  nowne  Annot  Alyface. 
R.  Royster  [aside} .    See  what  a  sort  she  kepeth  that  must  be  my 
wifem 

Shall  not  I  when  I  have  hir,  leade  a  merrie  life  ? 
Tib.   Talk.    Welcome  my  good  wenche,  and  sitte  here  by  me  just.  35 
An.  Alyface.    And  howe  doth  our  old  beldame  here,  Mage  Mumble- 
crust  ? 

Tib.  Talk.    Chyde,  and  finde  faultes,  and  threaten  to  complaine. 
An.  Alyface.    To  make  us  poore  girlcs  shent  to  hir  is  small  gaine.    B  Hi 
M.  Mumbl.    I  dyd  neyther  chyde,  nor  complaine,  nor  threaten. 
R.  Royster  [aside].    It  wouldc  grieve  my  heart  to  see  one  of  them 
beaten.  40 

M.  Mumbl.    I  dyd  nothyng  but  byd  hir  worke  and  holde  hir  peace. 
Tib.  Talk.    So  would  I,  if  you  coulde  your  clattering  ceasse  : 

But  the  devill  can  not  make  olde  trotte2  holde  hir  tong. 
An.  Alyface.    Let  all  these  matters  passe,  and  we  three  sing  a  song, 

So  shall  we  pleasantly  bothe  the  tyme  beguile  now,  45 

And  eke  dispatche  all  our  workes  ere  we  can  tell  how. 
Tib.  Talk.    I  shrew  them  that  say  nay,  and  that  shall  not  be  I. 
M.  Mumbl.    And  I  am  well  content. 
Tib.  Talk.    Sing  on  then  by  and  by. 
R.  Royster  [aside] .    And  I  will  not  away,  but  listen  to  their  song, 

Yet  Merygreeke  and  my  folkes  tary  very  long.  50 

TIB,  AN,  and  MARGERIE,  doe  singe  here. 

Pipe  mery  Annot.3  etc. 
Trilla,  Trilla.  Trillarie. 

Worke  Tibet,  worke  Annot,  worke  Margerie. 
Sewe  Tibet,  knitte  Annot,  spinne  Margerie. 
Let  us  see  who  shall  winne  the  victorie.  55 

1  entering. 

2  Sherwood  :    line  -vieille  cbarougne.      A  tough  toothlesse  trot,  etc. 

3  The  same  song  is  alluded  to  in  A  fore  tlclfc  ^Hazlitt's  Early  Pop.  Poetry,  3,  253). 


1 20  Roister  Doister  rACT.  l 

'lib.   Talk.    This  sieve  is  not  willyng  to  be  sewed  I  trowe, 

A  small  thing  might  make  me  all  in  the  grounde  to  throwe. 

Then  they  sing  agayne. 

Pipe  merrie  Annot.  etc. 

Trilla.   Trilla.  Trillarie. 

What  Tibet,  what  Annot,  what  Margerie.  60 

Ye  sleepe,  but  we  doe  not,  that  shall  we  trie. 

Your  fingers  be  nombde,  our  worke  will  not  lie. 

Tib.   Talk.    If  ye  doe  so  againe,  well  I  would  advise  you  nay. 
In  good  sooth  one  stoppe  l  more,  and  I  make  holy  day. 

They  singe  the  thirde  tyme. 

Pipe  Mery  Annot.  etc.  65 

Trilla.   Trilla.   Trillarie. 

Nowe  Tibbet,  now  Annot,  nowe  Margerie.  B  iii  b 

Nowe  whippet2  apace  for  the  maystrie, 
But  it  will  not  be,  our  mouth  is  so  drie. 

Tib.   Talk.    Ah,  eche  finger  is  a  thombe  to  day  me  thinke,  70 

I  care  not  to  let  all  alone,  choose  it  swimme  or  sinke. 

They  sing  the  fourth  tyme. 

Pipe  Mery  Annot.  etc. 
Trilla.  Trilla.   Trillarie. 
When  Tibet,  when  Annot,  when  Margerie. 
I  will  not,  I  can  not,  no  more  can  I.  75 

Then  give  we  all  over,  and  there  let  it  lye. 

Lette  hir  caste  downe  hir  worke. 

Tib.  Talk.    There  it  lieth,  the  worste  is  but  a  curried  cote[!]  3 
Tut  I  am  used  therto,  I  care  not  a  grote. 

1  stitch. 

2  Cf.  "wbippit  (in  Halliwell)  :   to  jump  about,  etc.      In  A  Treatyse  shelving  .  .  .  tbe  Pr\Je 
and  Abuse  of  Wumcn  Now   a   Dayes    (c.   1550)  :    "With   whippet   a  whyle   lyttle   pretone, 
Prancke  it,  and  hagge  it  well,"  etc. 

8  E.  has  comma. 


SC.  Ill] 


Roister  Doister  121 


An.  Alyface.    Have  we  done  singyng  since  ?   then  will  I  in  againe, 
Here  I  founde  you,  and  here  I  leave  both  twaine.  Exeat. 

M.  Mumbl.    And  I  will  not  be  long  after :  Tib  Talke  apace. 

Tib.   Talk.    What  is  ye  matter  ? 

M.  Mumbl.  [looking  at  RJ\.    Yond  stode  a  man  al  this  space 
And  hath  hearde  all  that  ever  we  spake  togyther. 

Tib.   Talk.    Mary  the  more  loute  he  for  his  comming  hither. 

And  the  lesse  good  he  can  to  listen  maidens  talke.  85 

I  care  not  and  I  go  byd  him  hence  for  to  walke : 

It  were  well  done  to  knowe  what  he  maketh  here  away.1 

R.  Royster  [aside] .    Nowe  myght  I  speake  to  them,  if  I  wist  what 
to  say. 

M.  Mumbl.    Nay  we  will  go  both  off,  and  see  what  he  is. 

R.  Royster.    One    that    hath    hearde    all    your    talke    and    singyng 
ywis.  90 

Tib.  Talk.    The  more  to  blame  you,  a  good  thriftie  husbande2 
Woulde  elsewhere  have  had  some  better  matters  in  hande. 

R.  Royster.    I  dyd  it  for  no  harme,  but  for  good  love  I  beare, 
To  your  dame  mistresse  Custance,  I  did  your  talke  heare. 
And  Mistresse  nource  I  will  kisse  you  for  acquaintance.        95 

M.  Mumbl.    I  come  anon  sir. 

Tib.  Talk.    Faith  I  would  our  dame  Custance 
Sawe  this  geare. 

M.  Mumbl.    I  must  first  wipe  al  cleane,  yea  I  must. 

Tib.  Talk.    Ill  chieue3  it  dotyng  foole,  but  it  must  be  cust.    ^ 

[ROYSTER  kisses  MUMBLECRUST.] 

M.  Mumbl.    God  yelde 4  you  sir,  chad  5  not  so  much  ichotte 5  not 

whan, 

Nere  since  chwas  bore  chwine,  of  such  a  gay  gentleman.    100 
R.  Royster.    I  will   kisse  you  too[,]   mayden  [,]   for  the  good  will  I 

beare  you.  B  i\ 

1  Murray's  earliest  quotation  for  '  here  away,'  etc.,  is  from  I  564. 

2  Sherwood  :   Bun  mesnagicr.  s  bring  to  an  end. 
*  yield  it  you  —  reward. 

6  I  had;  I  wot.  The  dialect  (generally  southern,  but  occasionally  also  northern)  used 
by  rustic  characters  in  the  earlier  plays;  e.g.  in  G.  G.  N.t  Trial  of  Treasure,  Like  luill  to 
Like,  etc. 


122  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  i 

Tib  Talk.    No  forsoth,  by  your  leave  ye  shall  not  kisse  me. 

R.  Royster.    Yes  be  not  afearde,  I  doe  not  disdayne  you  a  whit. 

Tib.   Talk.    Why  shoulde  I  feare  you  ?      I  have  not  so  little  wit, 
Ye  are  but  a  man  I  knowe  very  well.  105 

R.  Royster.    Why  then  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    Forsooth  for  I  wyll  not,  I  use  not  to  kisse  men. 

R.  Rovster.    I  would  faine  kisse  you  too  good  maiden,  if  I  myght. 

Tib.   Talk.    What  shold  that  neede  ? 

R.   Royster.    But  to  honor  you  by  this  light. 

I  use  to  kisse  all  them  that  I  love[,]  to  God  I  vowe. 

Tib.   Talk.    Yea    sir  ?      I   pray  you  when   dyd    ye    last   kisse    your 
cowe.1  no 

R.  Royster.    Ye  might  be  proude  to  kisse  me,  if  ye  were  wise. 

Tib.   Talk.    What  promotion  were  therein? 

R.  Royster.    Nourse  is  not  so  nice.2 

Tib.   Talk.    Well  I  have  not  bene  taught  to  kissing  and  licking. 

R.  Royster.    Yet  I  thanke  you  mistresse  Nourse,  ye  made  no  stick- 
ing. 

M.  Mumbl.    I   will    not   sticke    for   a    kosse    with   such  a  man    as 
you.  115 

Tib.   Talk.    They  that  lust :   I  will  againe  to  my  sewyng  now. 

An.  Alyfac^e,  re-entering^.    Tidings   hough,  tidings,  dame   Custance 
greeteth  you  well. 

R.  Royster.    Whome  me  ? 

An.  Alyface.    You  sir  ?   no  sir  ?   I  do  no  suche  tale  tell. 

R.  Royster.    But  and  she  knewe  me  here. 

An.  Alyface.    Tybet  Talke  apace, 

Your  mistresse   Custance  and  mine,  must  speake  with  your 
grace. 

Tib.  Talk.    With  me  ? 

An.  Alyface.    Ye  muste  come  in  to  hir  out  of  all  doutes. 

Tib.   Talk.    And    my  work    not    half   done  ?      A    mischief   on    all 
loutes.  Ex\eant\  am\_baeJ] 

R.  Royster.    Ah  good  sweet  nourse  [!] 

M.  Mumb.    A  good  sweete  gentleman  [!] 

1  Cf.   G.  G.  N.  v.  211  ;    Heywood,  Pro-v.  2,  ch.   7;    Camdcn,  Pro-v.  268. 

2  mincing,  coy. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  123 

R.  Royster.    What  ? 

M.  MumbL    Nay  I  can  not  tel  sir,  but  what  thing  would  you  ? 
R.  Royster.    Howe  dothe  sweete  Custance,  my  heart  of  gold,  tel\ 
me[,]  how  ?  1 25 

M.  MumbL    She  dothe  very  well  sir,  and  commaunde  me  to  you. 
R.  Royster.    To  me  ? 
M.  MumbL    Yea  to  you  sir. 
R.  Royster.    To  me  ?   nurse  tel  me  plain 

To  me  ? 
M.  Mumb.    Ye. 

R.  Royster.    That  word  maketh  me  alive  again. 
M.  MumbL    She  commaunde  me  to  one  last  day  who  ere  it  was. 
R.  Royster.    That  was  een  to  me  and  none  other  by  the  Masse.  130 
M.  MumbL    I  can  not  tell  you  surely,  but  one  it  was. 
R.  Royster.    It  was  I  and  none  other:   this  commeth  to  good  passe. 

I  promise  thee  nourse  I  favour  hir. 
M.  Mumb.    Een  so  sir. 
R.  Royster.    Bid  hir  sue  to  me  for  mariage. 

M.  MumbL    Een  so  sir.  B  iv  b 

R.  Royster.    And  surely  for  thy  sake  she  shall  speede.  135 

M.  Mumb.    Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.    I  shall  be  contented  to  take  hir. 
M.  Mumb.    Een  so  sir.  P  ^-. 

R.  Royster.    But  at  thy  request  and  for  thy  sake. 
M.  Mumb.    Een  so  sir. 

R.  Royster.    And  come  hearke  in  thine  eare  what  to  say. 
M.  Mumb.    Een  so  sir. 

Here  lette  him  tell  hir  a  great  long  tale  in  bir  eare* 
1  Cf.  the  whispering  scene  in  the  Trial  of  Treasure. 


124  Roister  Doister  [ACT. 


Actus.  i.     Scaena.  iiii. 

MATHEW    MERYGREEKE.       DOBINET   DOUGHTIE.       HARPAX    \jind  Musitiaru 

entering].      RALPH   ROYSTER.      MARGERIE   MUMBLECRUST  [still  on 

the  scene,  whispering], 

M.  Mer\.    Come  on  sirs  apace,  and  quite  your  selves  like  men, 

Your  pains  shalbe  rewarded. 
D.  Don.    But  I  wot  not  when. 

M.  Mery.    Do  your  maister  worship  as  ye  have  done  in  time  past. 
D.  Dough.    Speake  to  them  :   of  mine  office  he  shall  have  a  cast. 
M.  Mery.    Harpax,1  looke  that  thou  doe  well  too,  and  thy  fellow.  5 
Harpax.    I  warrant,  if  he  will  myne  example  folowe. 
M.  Mery.    Curtsie  whooresons,  douke   you  and  crouche  at  every 

worde, 

D.  Dough.    Yes  whether  our  maister  speake  earnest  or  horde. 
M.  Mery.    For  this  lieth  upon  his  preferment  in  deede. 
D.  Dough.    Oft  is  hee  a  wower,  but  never  doth  he  speede.  10 

M.  Mery.    But  with  whome  is  he  nowe  so  sadly  roundyng  yond  ? 
D,  Dough.    With  Nobs  nicebecetur  miserere"*1  fonde. 
\_M.~]  Mery  [approaching  R.  R.].    God  be  at  your  wedding,  be  ye 
spedde  alredie  ? 

I  did  not  suppose  that  your  love  was  so  greedie, 

I  perceive  nowe  ye  have  chose3  of  devotion,  15 

And  joy  have  ye  ladie  of  your  promotion. 
R.  Roaster.    Tushe  foole,  thou  art  deceived,  this  is  not  she. 
M.  Mery.    Well  mocke*  muche  of  hir,  and  keepe  hir  well  I  vise5 
ye. 

I  will  take  no  charge  of  such  a  faire  piece  keeping. 
M.  Mumbl.    What  ayleth  thys   fellowe  ?    he  driveth   me  to  weep- 
ing. 20 

1  Cf.  the  slave  of  Polymachzroplagides  in  Plaut.   PseuJo/us. 

2  Hazlitt  :   intentional  nonsense  for  '  nobis  miscebetur  [!]  miserere.''      Liturgical  words  mut- 
tered   indistinctly   and    used    here  jocosely.      Heywood  :     "  betweene    you    and    your    Ginirmee 
Nycebecetur  "   (Pro-v.   i,  ch.   11,  p.   57  =  'What's  her  name?'      Nescio  quid  diciturf}, 

8  Cf.  'spoke,'  V.  v,  5  ;   and  'take,'  III.  iii,  135. 

4  make  (Hazlitt).  5  avise,  advise. 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  125 

M.  Men.    What  weepe  on  the  wcddyng  day  ?   be  merrie  woman, 

Though  I  say  it,  ye  have  chose  a  good  gentleman. 
R.  Royster.    Kocks    nowncs !   what    meanest    thou    man[?]     tut    a 

whistlea[!] 
[M.  A/ery.]3    Ah  sir,  be  good  to  hir,  she  is  but  a  gristle,4  c  i 

Ah  sweete  lambe  and  coney.  25 

R.  Royster.    Tut  thou  art  deceived. 
M.  Mery.    Weepe  no  more  lady,  ye  shall  be  well  received. 

Up  wyth  some  mery  noyse  sirs,  to  bring  home  the  bride.5 
R.  Royster.    Gogs  armes  knave,  art  thou  madde  ?      I  tel  thee  thou 

art  wide.6 

M.  Mery.    Then  ye  entende  by  nyght  to  have  hir  home  brought. 
R.  Royster.    I  tel  thce  no.  30 

M.  Mery.    How  then  ? 
R.  Royster.    Tis  neither  ment  ne  thought. 
M.  Mery.    What  shall  we  then  doe  with  hir  ? 
R.  Royster.    Ah  foolish  harebraine, 

This  is  not  she. 
M.  Mery.    No  is  ? "  why  then  unsayde  againe, 

And  what  yong  girle  is  this  with  your  mashyp  so  bolde  ? 
R.  Royster.    A  girle  ? 

M.  Mery.  Yea.  I  dare  say,  scarce  yet  three  score  yere  old.  34 
R.  Royster.  This  same  is  the  faire  widowes  nourse  of  whome  ye  wotte. 
M.  Mery.  Is  she  but  a  nourse  of  a  house  ?  hence  home  olde  trotte, 

Hence  at  once. 
R.  Royster.  No,  no. 
M.  Mery.  What  an  please  your  maship 

A  nourse  talke  so  homely  8  with  one  of  your  worship  ? 

1  R. 's  oaths  are  generally  not  so  strong  ;   I  count  in  G.  G.  N.  48  oaths  beginning  with,  By 
Gog's,  Cocks,  etc. 

2  For  the  rhyme's  sake  5  cf.  Wilson's  Rbetoriyue,  202  :   Reticencia,  A  whisht  or  warning 
to  spcake  no  more. 

a  These  lines  are  assigned  to  R.  in  K. 
4  Cf.  Sherwood  :   Grison,  gray  with  age,  .  .  .  grizle. 

6  This  part  of  the  scene  is  the  reverse  of  Flaut.  Miles,  v.  1000  sej.,  where  Pal.  has  diffi- 
culties in  keeping  Pyrg.  from  falling  in  love  with  the  servant. 

6  Cf.  G.  G.  N.  p.  252. 

7  '  Is  it   not  she?'    cf.  v.  88;    II.  iv,   14.       Elliptical   construction,  cf.   Heywood,  Joban, 
11.  26  and  624.  H  friendly  (Cotgr.  ). 


1 26  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  l 

R.  Royster.    I  will  have  it  so  :   it  is  my  pleasure  and  will.  39 

M.  Mery.    Then  I  am  content.      Nourse  come  againe,  tarry  still. 
R.  Royster.    What,  she  will  helpe  forward  this  my  sute  for  hir  part. 
M.  Mery.    Then   ist    mine  owne   pygs   nig,1   and    blessing   on    my 

hart. 

R.  Royster.    This  is  our  best  friend  [,]   man  [!] 
M.  Mery.    Then  teach  hir  what  to  say  [!] 
M.  Mumbl.    I  am  taught  alreadie. 
M,  Mery.    Then  go,  make  no  delay. 

R.  Royster.    Yet  hark  one  word  in  thine  eare.  45 

M.  Mery  ^.Dobinet,  etc.,  press  on  Royster,  tvbo  pushes  them  back*}  .   Back 

sirs  from  his  taile. 

R.  Royster.    Backe  vilaynes,  will  ye  be  privie  of  my  counsaile? 
M.  Mery.    Backe  sirs,  so  :   I  tolde  you  afore  ye  woulde  be  shent. 
R.  Royster.    She  shall  have  the  first  day  a  whole  pecke  of  argent. 
M.  Mumbl.    A  pecke  ?      Nomine  patris  [crossing  herself '] ,  have  ye  so 

much  spare  ?2 
R.  Royster.    Yea  and  a  carte  lode  therto,  or  else  were  it  bare,        50 

Besides  other  movables,  housholde  stuffe  and  lande. 
M.  Mumbl.    Have  ye  lands  too. 
R.  Rovster.    An  hundred  marks. 
M.  Mery.    Yea  a  thousand 

M.  Mumbl.    And  have  ye  cattell  too  ?  and  sheepe  too  ? 
R.  Royster.    Yea  a  fewe. 
M.  Mery.    He  is  ashamed  the  numbre  of  them  to  shewe. 

Een  rounde  about  him,  as  many  thousande  sheepe  goes,         55 

As  he  and  thou  and  I  too,  have  fingers  and  toes. 
M.  Mumbl.    And  how  many  yeares  olde  be  you  ? 
R.  Royster.    Fortie  at  lest. 

M.  Mery.    Yea  and  thrice  fortie  to  them.  C  i  b 

R.  Royster.    Nay  now  thou  dost  jest. 

I  am  not  so  olde,  thou  misreckonest  my  yeares.  59 

M.  Mery.    I  know  that :  but  my  minde  was  on  bullockes  and  steeres. 
M.  Mumbl.    And  what  shall  I  shewe  hir  your  masterships  name  is  ? 
R.  Royster.    Nay  she  shall  make  sute  ere  she  know  that  ywis. 
M.  Mumbl.    Yet  let  me  somewhat  knowe. 

1  Cf.  Chaucer's  Miller's  Tale,  3268,  Skelton,  etc.  2  C.,  'to'  spare. 


sc.  „„]  Roister  Doister  1 27 

M.  Mery.    This  is  hee[,]  understand, 

That  killed  the  blewe  Spider1  in  Blanchepouder2  lande. 

M.  Mumbl.    Yea    Jw^[!]    William  [!]    zee   law[!]    dyd  he  zo[?] 
law[!]  65 

M.  Mery.    Yea  and  the  last  Elephant 3  that  ever  he  sawe, 
As  the  beast  passed  by,  he  start  out  of  a  buske,4 
And  een  with  pure  strength  of  armes  pluckt  out  his  great  tuske. 

M.  Mumbl.    Jesus,  nomine  patris  [crossing  herself] ,  what  a  thing  was 
that  ? 

R.  Roister.    Yea  but  Merygreke  one  thing  thou  hast  forgot.          70 

M.  Mery.    What  ? 

R.  Royster.    Of  thother  Elephant. 

M.  Mery.    Oh  hym  that  fledde  away. 

R.  Royster.    Yea. 

M.  Mery.    Yea  he  knew  that  his  match  was  in  place  that  day 
Tut,  he  bet  the  king  of  Crickets5  on  Christmasse  day, 
That  he  crept  in  a  hole,  and  not  a  worde  to  say. 

M.  Mumbl.    A  sore  man  by  zembletee.6  75 

M.  Mery.    Why,  he  wrong  a  club 

Once  in  a  fray  out  of  the  hande  of  Belzebub. 

R.  Royster.    And  how  when  Mumfision  ? 

M.  Mery.    Oh  your  coustrelyng  7 

Bore  the  lanterne  a  fielde  so  before  the  gozelyng. 
Nay  that  is  to  long  a  matter  now  to  be  tolde : 
Never  aske  his  name  Nurse,  I  warrant  thee,  be  bolde,  80 

He  conquered  in  one  day  from  Rome,  to  Naples, 
And  woonne  Townes[,]  nourse[,J  as  fast  as  thou  canst  make 
Apples. 

1  Cf.  the  first  scene  in  Plaut.  Miles.      Instead  of  the  blue  spider,  etc.,  Thersites  kills  Cots- 
rold   Lions,    fights  against   a  snail,   as    Horribilicribrifax  against   a   cat,   and  Sir  Thopas  (in 
SnJymion )  against  the  '  monster  '  Ovis. 

2  Pouldrc  blanche:    a  powder  compounded   of  Ginger,   Cinnamon,    and    Nutmegs    (Cot- 
grave).      Cf.  Blauncbe  laund  in   the  Story  of  Fulk  Fit-z  IVarine  ;   the  Lady  of  Blanchland  in 
the  poem  on  Carle  off  Carlilc  in  Percy's  Folio  Ms.  3,  2"9,  etc. 

8  Cf.  Plaut.  Miles,  I.  i,  26.  *  Northern  dialect  for  'bush.' 

6  In  the  series  of  the  '  blue  spider  *  and  the  '  gozeling. '      Cf.  "  the  King  of  Cockneys  on 
Cbildcrmas-day,"  Brand's  Pop.  Ant.   I,  536,  etc. 

6  by  the  holy  blood  ?      (Hazlitt  :  quasi  semblety,  semblance.) 

7  Cf.   Custrcl  in  Phil.  Soc.  Diet.,  Coustillicr  in  Cotgr. 


128  Roister  Doister 


[ACT. 


M.  Mumbl.    O  Lorde,  my  heart  quaketh  for  feare  :   he  is  to  sore. 
R.  Royster.    Thou  makest  hir  to  much  afearde,  Merygreeke  no  more. 

This  tale  woulde  feare  my  sweete  heart  Custance  right  evill. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  let  hir  take  him  Nurse,  and  feare  not  the  devill.       86 

But  thus   is  our  song  dasht.      [70  the  musicians^  Sirs  ye  may 

home  againe. 
R.  Royster.    No  shall  they  not.      I  charge  you  all  here  to  remaine  : 

The  villaine  slaves  [!]  a  whole  day  ere  they  can  be  founde. 
M.  Mery.    Couche  on  your  marybones  whooresons,  down   to  the 
ground  [I]1  90 

Was  it  meete  he  should  tarie  so  long  in  one  place 

Without  harmonic  of  Musike,  or  some  solace  ?  C  ii 

Who  so  hath  suche  bees  as  your  maister  in  hys  head, 

Had  neede  to  have  his  spirites  with  Musike  to  be  fed. 

By  your  maisterships  licence  [picking  something  from  his  coat^. 
R.  Royster.    What  is  that  ?  a  moate  ?  96 

M.  Mery.    No  it  was  a  fooles  feather  2  had  light  on  your  coate. 
R.  Roister.    I  was  nigh  no  feathers  since  I  came  from  my  bed. 
M.  Mery.    No  sir,  it  was  a  haire  that  was  fall  from  your  hed. 
R.  Roister.    My  men  com  when  it  plese  them. 
M.  Mery.    By  your  leve. 
R.  Roister.    What  is  that  ? 

M.  Mery.   Your  gown  was  foule  spotted  with  the  foot  of  a  gnat.  100 
R.  Roister.    Their  maister  to  offende  they  are  nothing  afearde. 

What  now  ? 
M.  Mery.    A  lousy  haire  from  your  masterships  beard. 

Omnes  famul\i\.*    And  sir  for  Nurses  sake   pardon  this  one 
oftence. 

We  shall  not  after  this  shew  the  like  negligence.  104 

R.  Royster.    I  pardon  you  this  once,  and  come  sing  nere  the  wurse. 
M.  Mery.    How  like  you  the  goodnesse  of  this  gentleman  [,]  nurse  ? 

1  Here  follows  a  farcical  scene,  doubtlessly  inserted  for  the  applause  of  the  galleries.      The 
musicians  are  supposed  to  kneel  in  mock  reverence  (v.  90),  while  M.  indulges  in  practical 
jokes  upon  R. 

2  A   picture  of  such  a   'fool's  feather,'  added  to  the  'comb'  in  Deuce's  Illustrations,  II. 
Plate  4,  i   (cf.  ib.  p.  322). 

8  E.,  famu/ae,   but  the  maids  are  not  on  the  stage;   v.    107    (his  men)   shows  that  the 
musicians  are  meant. 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  1 29 

M.  Mumbl.    God  save  his  maistcrship  that  so  can  his  men  forgeve, 
And  I  wyll  heare  them  sing  ere  I  go,  by  his  leave. 

R.  Royster.    Mary  and  thou  shalt  wenche,  come  we  two  will  daunce. 

M.  Mumbl.  Nay  I  will  by  myne  owne  selfe  foote  the  song  perchaunce. 

R.  Royster.    Go  to  it  sirs  lustily.  1 1  i 

M.  Mumbl.    Pipe  up  a  mery  note, 

Let  me  heare  it  playde,  I  will  foote  it  for  a  grote. 

Content. ' 

R.  Royster.    Now  nurse  take  thys  same  letter  here  to  thy  mistresse. 

And  as  my  trust  is  in  thee  plie  my  businesse. 

M.  Mumbl.    It  shalbe  done[!]2  115 

M.  Mery.    Who  made  it  ? 
R.  Royster.    I  wrote  it  ech  whit. 
M.  Mery.    Then  nedes  it  no  mending. 
R.  Royster.    No,  no. 
M.  Mery.    No  I  know  your  wit. 

I  warrant  it  wel. 
M.  Mumb.    It  shal  be  delivered. 

But  if  ye  speede,  shall  I  be  considered  ? 
M.  Mery.    Whough,  dost  thou  doubt  of  that  ? 

Madge.    What  shal  I  have  ?  119 

M.  Mery.    An  hundred  times  more  than  thou  canst  devise  to  crave 
M.  Mumbl.    Shall  I  have  some  newe  geare  ?   for  my  olde  is  all  spent. 
M.  Mery.    The  worst  kitchen  wench  shall  goe  in  ladies  ravment. 
M.  Mumbl.    Yea  ? 
M.  Mery.    And  the  worst  drudge  in  the  house  shal  go  better 

Than  your  mistresse  doth  now. 

Mar.    Then  I  trudge  with  your  letter.  [Exit.  ] 

R.  Royster.  Now  may  I  repose  me  :   Custance  is  mine  owne.         c  ii  h 

Let  us  sing  and  play  homeward  that  it  may  be  knowne.       126 
M.  Mery.    But  are  you  sure,  that  your  letter  is  well  enough  ? 
R.  Royster.    I  wrote  it  my  selfe. 
M.  Mery.    Then  sing  we  to  dinner. 

Here  they  sing,  and  go  out  singing. 

1  Content  refers  apparently  to  the  Seconde  Song  at  the  end  of  the  play.  2  E.  has  '  ?  '. 


i3°  Roister  Doister         [ACT.  i.,  sc.  v 

Actus.  i.     Scaena.  v. 

CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE.      MARGERIE  MUMBLECRUST. 

C.  Custance.    Who  tooke  l  thee  thys  letter  Margerie  Mumblecrust  ? 

M.  Mumbl.    A  lustie  gay  bacheler  tooke  it  me  of  trust, 
And  if  ye  seeke  to  him  he  will  lowe  2  your  doing. 

C.  distance.    Yea,  but  where  learned  he  that  manner  of  wowing  ? 

M.  Mumbl.    If  to  sue  to  hym,  you  will  any  paines  take,  5 

He  will  have  you  to  his  wife  (he  sayth)  for  my  sake. 

C.  distance.    Some  wise  gentlemen  belike.      I  am  bespoken  3  : 
And  I  thought  verily  thys  had  bene  some  token 
From   my  dere  spouse4  Gawin   Goodluck,  whom  when   him 

please 
God  luckily  sende  home  to  both  our  heartes  ease.  10 

M.  Mumbl.    A  joyly  5  man  it  is  I  wote  well  by  report, 
And  would  have  you  to  him  for  marriage  resort  : 
Best  open  the  writing,  and  see  what  it  doth  speake. 

C.  distance.    At  thys  time  nourse  I  will  neither  reade  ne  breake. 

M.  Mumbl.    He  promised  to  give  you  a  whole  pecke  of  golde.      15 

C.  distance.    Perchaunce  lacke  of  a  pynte  when  it  shall  be  all  tolde. 

M.  Mumbl.    I  would  take  a  gay  riche  husbande,  and  I  were  you. 

C.  Custance.    In  good  sooth  Madge,  een  so  would  I,  if  I  were  thou.G 
But  no  more  of  this  fond  talke  now,  let  us  go  in, 
And  see  thou  no  more  move  me  follv  to  begin.  20 

Nor  bring  mee  no  mo  letters  for  no  mans  pleasure, 
But  thou  know  from  whom. 

M.  Mumbl.    I  warrant  ye  shall  be  sure. 

1  gave.      Cf.   The  Lytell  Gate  of  Robyn  Hodc  :   "Take  him  a  gray  courser,"  etc. 

a  Cf.  'allowe,'  V.  i,  12;    '  chieve,'  'gree,'  etc.   (C.  changes:    Moue'). 

3  promised. 

4arfianced;    cf.  IV.  i,   17;    IV    iii,  41  ;    V.  ii,  6. 

6  C. ,  '  ioly  '  ;   cf.  ioily,  II.  iii,   53. 

6  Custance's  quick  answer  need  not  be  carried  back  to  1'armenio  (as  by  Cooper). 


ACT.  ii.,  sc.  i]  Roister  Doister  1 3 1 

Actus.  ii.     Scaena  i.1  c  [m] 

DoBINET    DoUGHTIE. 

D.  Dough.    Where  is  the  house  I  goe  to,  before  or  behinde  ? 
I  know  not  where  nor  when  nor  how  I  shal  it  finde. 
It  I  had  ten  mens  bodies  and  legs  and  strength, 
This  trotting  that  I  have  must  needs  lame  me  at  length. 
And  nowe  that  my  maister  is  new  set  on  wowyng,  5 

I  trust  there  shall  none  of  us  finde  lacke  of  doyng : 
Two  paire  of  shoes  a  day  will  nowe  be  too  litle 
To  serve  me,  I  must  trotte  to  and  fro  so  mickle. 
Go  beare  me  thys  token,  carrie  me  this  letter, 
Nowe  this  is  the  best  way,  nowe  that  way  is  better.  10 

Up  before  day  sirs,  I  charge  you,  an  houre  or  twaine, 
Trudge,  do  me  thys  message,  and  bring  worde  quicke  againe, 
If  one  misse  but  a  minute,  then  [H]is  armes  and  woundes2 
I  woulde  not  have  slacked  for  ten  thousand  poundes. 
Nay  see  I  beseeche  you,  if  my  most  trustie  page,  1 5 

Goe  not  nowe  aboute  to  hinder  my  manage, 
So  fervent  hotte  wowyng,  and  so  far  re  from  wiving, 
I  trowe  never  was  any  creature  livyng, 
With  every  woman  is  he  in  some  loves  pang, 
Then  up  to  our  lute  at  midnight,  twangledome  twang,3         20 
Then  twang  with  our  sonets,  and  twang  with  our  dumps,4 
And  heyhough  from  our  heart,  as  heavie  as  lead  lumpes  : 
Then  to  our  recorder5  with  toodleloodle  poope 
As  the  howlet  out  of  an  yvie  bushe  should  hoope. 
Anon  to  our  gitterne,  thrumpledum,  thrumpledum  thrum,      25 
Thrumpledum,     thrumpledum,     thrumpledum,     thrumpledum 
thrum. 

1  II.  i.      A  night  has  passed  between  the  first  and  the  second  acts  [note  the  '  last  day  '  in 
v.  46].      The  following  monologue  is  distinctly  in   the  spirit  of  the  Roman   comed\.      The 
signature  at  the  bottom  of  this  page  in  the  K.  copy  is  C  \. 

2  K.,  'his,'  and  no  dashes,  but  a  comma  after  'woundes.' 
8  Tiuangillos  in  Halliwell,   Tivangu  in  Fliigel's  Diet. 

4  An  onomatopoctic  melody,  song;   cf.   Rume;,  IV.   \,   108,   129.  6  flute. 


1 3  2  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  n 

Of  Songs  and  Balades  also  is  he  a  maker, 

And  that  can  he  as  finely  doe  as  lacke  Raker,1  C  iii  b 

Yea  and  extempore  will  he  dities  compose, 

Foolishe  Manias  nere  made  the  like  I  suppose,  30 

Yet  must  we  sing  them,  as  good  stufFe  I  undertake, 

As  for  such  a  pen  man  is  well  fittyng  to  make. 

Ah  for  these  long  nights,  heyhow,  when  will  it  be  day  ? 

I  feare  ere  I  come  she  will  be  wowed  away. 

Then  when  aunswere  is  made  that  it  may  not  bee,  35 

0  death  why  commest  thou  not  ?  by  and  by3  (sayth  he)  [;] 
But  then,  from  his  heart  to  put  away  sorowe, 

He  is  as  farre  in  with  some  newe  love  next  morowe. 

But  in  the  meane  season  we  trudge  and  we  trot, 

From  dayspring  to  midnvght,  I  sit  not,  nor  rest  not.  40 

And  now  am  I  sent  to  dame  Christian  Custance  : 

But  I  feare  it  will  ende  with  a  mocke  for  pastance.2 

1  bring  hir  a  ring,  with  a  token  in  a  cloute, 

And  by  all  gesse,  this  same  is  hir  house  out  of  doute. 

I  knowe  it  nowe  perfect,  I  am  in  my  right  way.  45 

And  loe  yond  the  olde  nourse  that  was  wyth  us  last  day. 


Actus  ii.     Scaena  ii. 
MAGE  MUMBLECRUST.     DOBINET  DOUGHTIE. 

M.  Mumbl.    I  was  nere  so  shoke4  up  afore  since  I  was  borne, 

That  our  mistresse  coulde  not  have  chid4  I  wold  have  sworne  : 
And  I  pray  God  I  die  if  I  ment  any  harme, 
But  for  my  life  time  this  shall  be  to  me  a  charme. 
D.  Dough.    God  you  save  and  see  nurse,  and  howe  is  it  with  you  ?   5 
M.  Mumbl.    Mary  a  great  deale  the  worse  it  is  for  suche  as  thou. 

1  Cf.  Skelton  against  Garnesche  :    "  Ye  wolde  be  callyd  a  maker  And  make  mocke  lyke  Jake 
Raker  "   (  Dyce  :    "an  imaginary  person  whose  name  had  become  proverbial  "  for  bad  verses). 

2  Note  'pastance,'  indicating  the  original  pronunciation  in  the  rhyme,  III.  iii,  151  ;   V.  ii, 
23  5    where  the  word  is  not  required  for  the  rhyme  we  find  '  pastime,'  V.  v,  20,  etc.      So   in 
Henry  VIIl's  famous   song,  Pastime  •with  good  comf>an\e,  we   have  the   word   rhyming   with 
'daliance,'   'daunce.'  8  From  time  to  time.       Prompt.  Paris.       Gen.  Ed. 

4  '  shoke  '  in  Shakespeare  ;    '  chid  '  cf.  II.  iii,  4. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  133 

D.  Dough.    For  me  ?     Why  so  ? 

M.  Mumb.    Why  wer  not  thou  one  of  them,  say, 

That  song  and  playde  here  with  the  gentleman  last  day  ? 
D.  Dough.    Yes,  and  he  would  know  if  you  have  for  him  spoken. 

And  prayes  you  to  deliver  this  ring  and  token.  10 

M.  MumbL    Nowe  by  the  token  that  God  tokened  [,]  brother, 

I  will  deliver  no  token  one  nor  other. 

I  have  once  ben  so  shent  for  your  maisters  pleasure,  c  iv 

As  I  will  not  be  agayne  for  all  hys  treasure. 

D.  Dough.    He  will  thank  you  woman.  i  5 

M.  MumbL    I  will  none  of  his  thanke.  Ex. 

D.  Dough.    I  weene  I  am  a  prophete,  this  geare  will  prove  blanke  : l 

But  what  should  I  home  againe  without  answere  go  ? 

It  were  better  go  to  Rome2  on  my  head  than  so. 

I  will  tary  here  this  moneth,  but  some  of  the  house  20 

Shall  take  it  of  me,  and  then  I  care  not  a  louse. 

But  yonder  commeth  forth  a  wenche  or  a  ladde, 

If  he  have  not  one  Lumbardes  touche,3  my  lucke  is  bad. 


Actus.  ii.    Scaena.  iii. 
TRUEPENIE.      D.  DOUGH.      TIBET  T.      ANOT  AL. 

Trupeny.    I  am  cleane  lost  for  lacke  of  mery  companie, 
We  gree  not  halfe  well  within,  our  wenches  and  I, 
They  will  commaunde  like  mistresses,  they  will  forbyd, 
If  they  be  not  served,  Trupeny  must  be  chyd. 
Let  them  be  as  mery  nowe  as  ye  can  desire,  5 

With  turnyng  of  a  hande,  our  mirth  lieth  in  the  mire, 
I  can  not  skill  of  such  chaungeable  mettle, 
There  is  nothing  with  them  but  in  docke  out  nettle.4 

1  unsuccessful. 

2  Cf.  Hickscorner  (  Dodsley,  I,  I  68):    "  If  any  of  us  three  be  mayor  of  London  I  wis  I  will 
ride  to  Rome  on  my  thumb." 

8  touchstone  (Cotgr. ).  The  Lombards  famous  as  bankers;  ill  famed  for  their  "  subtyl 
craflt  ...  to  deceyue  a  gentyl  man"  (Boorde's  IntroJ.,  p.  186). 

•*  Cf.  Chaucer,  Trail.  4,  461  ;  Heywood,  Prov.  z,  ch.  i.  Reference  to  the  cure  of  nettle- 
stings  by  dock-leaves. 


1 34  Roister  Dot's ter  [ACT.  n 

D.  Dough.    Whether  is  it  better  that  I  speake  to  him  furst, 

Or  he  first  to  me,  it  is  good  to  cast  the  wurst.  10 

If  I  beginne  first,  he  will  smell  all  my  purpose, 
Otherwise  I  shall  not  neede  any  thing  to  disclose. 

Trupeny.    What  boy  have  we  yonder  ?      I  will  see  what  he  is. 

D.  Dough.    He  commeth  to  me.      It  is  hereabout  ywis. 

Trupeny.    Wouldest  thou  ought  friende,  that  thou  lookest  so  about  ? 

D.  Dough.    Yea,  but  whether  ye  can  helpe  me  or  no,  I  dout.         16 
I  seeke  to  one  mistresse  Custance  house  here  dwellyng. 

Trupenie.    It  is  my  mistresse  ye  seeke  too  by  your  telling. 

D.  Dough.    Is  there  any  of  that  name  heere  but  shee  ? 

Trupenie.    Not   one    in    all   the   whole    towne   that   I    knowe    par- 
dee.  C  iv  b     20 

D.  Dough.    A  Widowe  she  is  I  trow. 

Trupenie.    And  what  and  she  be  ? 

D.  Dough.    But  ensured  to  an  husbande. 

Trupenie.    Yea,  so  thinke  we. 

D.  Dough.    And  I  dwell  with  hir  husbande  that  trusteth  to  be. 

Trupenie.    In  faith  then  must  thou  needes  be  welcome  to  me, 

Let  us  for  acquaintance  shake  handes  togither,  25 

And  what  ere  thou  be,  heartily  welcome  hither. 

Tib.   Talk.    Well  Trupenie  never  but  flinging.1  [entering  with  AN.] 

An.  Alyface.    And  frisking  ? 

Trupenie.    Well  Tibet  and  Annot,  still  swingyng  and  whiskyng  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    But  ye  roile  abroade. 

An.  Alyface.    In  the  streete  evere  where. 

Trupenie.    Where  are  ye  twaine,  in   chambers   when   ye   mete  me 
there  ?  30 

But  come  hither  fooles,  I  have  one  nowe  by  the  hande, 
Servant  to  hym  that  must  be  our  mistresse  husbande, 
Byd  him  welcome. 

An.  Alyface.    To  me  truly  is  he  welcome. 

Tib.   Talk.    Forsooth  and  as  I  may  say,  heartily  welcome. 

D.  Dough.    I  thank  you  mistresse  maides  35 

An.  Alyface.     I  hope  we  shal  better  know 

Tib.   Talk.    And  when  wil  our  new  master  come. 

-1  running  about. 


st.  in J  Roister  Doister  135 

D.  Dough.    Shortly  I  trow. 

Tib.   Talk.    I  would  it  were  to  morow  :   for  till  he  rcsorte 
Our  mistresse  being  a  Widow  hath  small  comforte, 
And  I  hcardc  our  noursc  spcakc  of  an  husbande  to  day 
Ready  for  our  mistresse,  a  riche  man  and  a  gay,  40 

And  we  shall  go  in  our  frcnchc  hoodes  '  every  day, 
In  our  silke  cassocks  (I  warrant  you)  freshe  and  gay, 
In  our  tricke2  ferdegews  and  billiments  of  golde,8 
Brave4  in  our  sutes  of  chaunge  seven  double  folde, 
Then  shall  ye  see  Tibet  sirs,  treade  the  mosse  so  trimme,     45 
Nay,  why  sayd  I  treade  ?  ye  shall  see  hir  glide  and  swimme, 
Not  lumperdee  clumperdee  like  our  spaniell  Rig. 

Trupeny.    Mary  then  prickmedaintie6  come  toste  me  a  fig.6 
Who  shall  then  know  our  Tib  Talke  apace  trow  ye  ? 

An.  Alyface.    And  why  not  An  not  Alvtace  as  fyne  as  she  ?  50 

Trupeny.    And  what  had  Tom  Trupeny,  a  father  or  none  ? 

An.  Alyface.    Then  our  prety  newe  come  man  will  looke  to  be  one. 

Trupeny.    We  foure  I  trust  shall  be  a  joily  mery  knot. 

Shall  we  sing  a  fitte  to  welcome  our  fricnde,  Annot  ?  D  i 

An.  Alyface.    Perchaunce  he  can  not  sing.  55 

D.  Dough.    I  am  at  all  assayes." 

Tib.   Talk.    By  cocke  and  the  better  welcome  to  us  alwayes. 

Here  they  sing. 

A  thing  very  fitte  No  man  complainyng,       65 

For  them  that  have  witte,  Nor  other  disdayning, 

And  are  felowcs  knitte  For  losse  or  for  gainyng, 

Servants  in  one  house  to  bee,  60  But  felowes  or  friends  to  bee. 

Is  fast  fast  for  to  sittc,  No  grudge  remainyng, 

And  not  oft  to  flitte,  No  worke  refrainyng,  70 

Nor  vane  a  whitte,  Nor  helpe  restrainyng, 

But  lovingly  to  agree.  But  lovingly  to  agree. 

1  O".  Boonle's  /«/•',</.,  191,  etc.  '-  nf.u.      Cf.  Ascham,   Tux.  28. 

:!  K.   and   A.    read:    '  fenlegews '  ;    C.  and  H.  :    '  r'erdi-gews.'      Is  it  the  same  as  French: 
Vcrdti'^allc  (  A  varding.ile,  Cotgr.  )  •   i/>.  s.v.    li.i-;'',.',:t  :    A  hillinicnt  or  head-attire,  etc. 
*  gay  (the  earliest  quot.  in  Murray  is  from   I  >6S  i. 

&  Cf.  Jamieson's  \'<tt.  I):  t.:      Prickmedainty,  one  who  is  finical  in  dress  or  carriage. 
fi  Ib  tliis  rcl.itc-d  to  "g'uin-  a  rig"  ?  "  ri-ady  tor  every  event  (/'/'//.  A'',,-.  Out.). 


136  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  n 

No  man  for  despite,  After  drudgerie, 

By  worde  or  by  write  When  they  be  werie, 

His  felowe  to  twite,  75  Then  to  be  merie, 

But  further  in  honestie,  To  laugh  and  sing  they  be  free 

No  good  turnes  entwite,1  With  chip  and  cherie  85 

Nor  olde  sores  recite,  Heigh  derie  derie, 

But  let  all  goe  quite,  Trill  on  the  berie,2 

And  lovingly  to  agree.  80  And  lovingly  to  agree. 

Finis. 

Tib.   Talk.    Wyll  you  now  in  with  us  unto  our  mistresse  go  ? 

D.  Dough.    I  have  first  for  my  maister  an  errand  or  two.  90 

But  I  have  here  from  him  a  token  and  a  ring, 

They  shall  have  moste  thanke  of  hir  that  first  doth  it  bring. 
Tib.  Talk.    Mary  that  will  I. 
Trupeny.    See  and  Tibet  snatch  not  now. 

Tib.   Talk.    And  why  may  not  I  sir,  get  thanks  as  well  as  you  ?  Exeat. 
An.  Alyface.    Yet  get  ye  not  all,  we  will  go  with  you  both.  95 

And  have  part  of  your  thanks  be  ye  never  so  loth. 

\_Exeant  omnes.^ 
D.  Dough.    So  my  handes  are  ridde  of  it :   I  care  for  no  more. 

I  may  now  return  home  :   so  durst  I  not  afore.  Exeat. 


Actus.  ii.     Scaena.  iiii.  D  ;  b 

C.    CUSTANCE.      TIBET.      ANNOT  ALYFACE.      TRUPENY. 

C.  distance.    Nay   come   forth  all   three :    and   come  hither   pretie 
mayde  : 

Will  not  so  many  forewarnings  make  you  afrayde  ? 
Tib.   Talk.    Yes  forsoth. 
C.  distance.    But  stil  be  a  runner  up  and  downe 

Still  be  a  bringer  of  tidings  and  tokens  to  towne. 
Tib.   Talk.    No  forsoth  mistresse.  5 

1  to  make  a  thing  a  subject  for  reproach  (Phil.  Soc.  Diet.). 

2  Four  Elcm.   (  Dodsley,  I,  20). 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  137 

C.  Custance.    Is  all  your  delite  and  joy 

In  whiskyng  and  ramping  1  abroade  like  a  Tom  boy. 
Tib.  Talk.    Forsoth  these  were  there  too,  Annot  and  Trupenie. 
Trupenie.    Yea  but  ye  alone  tooke  it,  ye  can  not  denie. 
Annot  Aly.    Yea  that  ye  did. 
Tibet.    But  if  I  had  not,  ye  twaine  would. 

C.  Custance.    You  great   calfe  ye  should    have    more  witte,  so   ye 
should :  10 

But  why  shoulde  any  of  you  take  such  things  in  hande. 
Tibet.    Because  it  came  from  him  that  must  be  your  husbande. 
C.  Custance.    How  do  ye  know  that  ? 
Tibet.    Forsoth  the  boy  did  say  so. 
C.  Custance.    What  was  his  name  ? 
An.  Alyface.    We  asked  not. 
C.  Custance.    No  ?  2 

An.  Aliface.    He  is  not  farre  gone  of  likelyhod.  1 5 

Trupen\.    I  will  see. 

C.  Custance.    If  thou  canst  finde  him  in  the  streete  bring  him  to  me. 
Trupenie.    Yes.  Exeat. 

C.  Custance.    Well  ye  naughty  girles,  if  ever  I  perceive 

That  henceforth  you  do  letters  or  tokens  receive, 

To  bring  unto  me  from  any  person  or  place, 

Except  ye  first  shewe  me  the  partie  face  to  face,  20 

Eyther  thou  or  thou,  full  truly  abye3  thou  shalt. 
Tibet.    Pardon  this,  and  the  next  tyme  pouder  me  in  salt. 
C.  Custance.    I  shall  make  all  girles  by  you  twaine  to  beware. 
Tibet.    If  ever  I  offende  againe  do  not  me  spare. 

But  if  ever  I  see  that  false  boy  any  more  25 

By  your  mistreshyps  licence  I  tell  you  afore 

I  will  rather  have  my  cote  twentie  times  swinged, 

Than  on  the  naughtie  wag  not  to  be  avenged. 
C.  Custance.    Good  wenches  would  not  so  rampe  abrode  ydelly, 

But  keepe  within  doores,  and  plie  their  work  earnestly,    I)  ii     30 

1  Cf.    Cotgr.    s.ii.    Trcnon  :   f.  A   great   raumpc,   or  tomboy  ;   s.v     Trotter e  :   f.    A   raumpc 
.  .  .  raunging  damscll,  etc. 

2  F..,  '  No  did  ? '  — •  '  did  '  spoils  the  rhyme. 

3  Cf.  Palsgrave,  415  ;   I  abye,  I  forthynke  or  am  punished  for  a  thyngc,  etc. 


1 3  8  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

If  one  would  speake  with  me  that  is  a  man  likely, 

Ye  shall  have  right  good  thanke  to  bring  me  worde  quickly. 

But  otherwyse  with  messages  to  come  in  post 

From  henceforth  I  promise  you,  shall  be  to  your  cost. 

Get  you  in  to  your  work.  35 

Tib.  An.    Yes  forsoth. 
C.  Custance.    Hence  both  twaine. 

And  let  me  see  you  play  me  such  a  part  againe. 

\_Exeant  TIB.  and  AN.] 

Trupeny  [entering] .    Maistresse,  I  have  runne  past  the  farre  ende  oif 
the  streete, 

Yet  can  I  not  yonder  craftie  boy  see  nor  meete. 
C.  Custance.    No  ? 
Trupeny.    Yet  I  looked  as  farre  beyonde  the  people. 

As  one  may  see  out  of  the  toppe  of  Paules  steeple.  40 

C.  Custance.    Hence  in  at  doores,  and  let  me  no  more  be  vext. 
Trupeny.    Forgeve  me  this  one  fault,  and  lay  on  for  the  next. 
C.  Custance.    Now  will  I  in  too,  for  I  thinke  so  God  me  mende, 

This  will  prove  some  foolishe  matter  in  the  ende.  Exeat. 


Actus.  [i]ii.     Scaena.  i. 

MATHEWE  MERYGREEKE. 

M.  Mery.    Nowe  say  thys  againe  :   he  hath  somewhat  to  dooing 
Which  followeth  the  trace  of  one  that  is  wowing, 
Specially  that  hath  no  more  wit  in  his  hedde, 
Than  my  cousin  Roister  Doister  withall  is  ledde. 
I  am  sent  in  all  haste  to  espie  and  to  marke  5 

How  our  letters  and  tokens  are  likely  to  warke. 
Maister  Roister  Doister  must  have  aunswere  in  haste 
For  he  lovcth  not  to  spende  much  labour  in  waste. 
Nowe  as  for  Christian  Custance  by  this  light, 
Though  she  had  not  hir  trouth  to  Gawin  Goodluck  plight,    10 


n]  Roister  Doister  1 39 

Yet  rather  than  with  such  a  loutishe  dolte  to  marie, 
I  dare  say  woulde  lyve  a  poore  lyfe  solitarie, 
Hut  fayne  woulde  I  spcake  with  distance  if  I  wist  how 
To  laugh  at  the  matter,  yond  commeth  one  forth  now. 


Actus.  iii.      Scaena.  ii.  D  "  /> 

TIBET.      M.    MERYGREEKE.      CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE. 

Tib.   Talk.    Ah  that  I  might  but  once  in  my  life  have  a  sight 
Of  him  that  made  us  all  so  yll  shent  by  this  light, 
He  should  never  escape  if  I  had  him  by  the  eare, 
But  even  from  his  head,  I  would  it  bite  or  teare. 
Yea  and  if  one  of  them  were  not  inowe,  5 

I  would  bite  them  both  of},  I  make  God  avow. 

M.  Men.    What  is  he,  whome  this  little  mouse  cloth  so  threaten  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    I   woulde  tcache  him   I   trow,  to   make  girles  shent  or 
beaten. 

M.  Men.    I  will  call  hir  :   Maide  with  whome  are  ye  so  hastie  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    Not  with  you  sir,  but  with  a  little  wag-pastie,  10 

A  deceiver  of  folkes,  by  subtill  craft  and  guile. 

M.  Mer\-.    I    knowe   where  she    is :     Dobinet   hath    wrought  some 
wile. 

Tib.   Talk.    He  brought  a  ring  and  token  which  he  sayd  was  sent 
From  our  dames  husbande,  but  I  wot  well  I  was  shent : 
For  it  liked  hir  as  wrell  to  tell  you  no  lies,  15 

As  water  in  hir  shyppe,  or  salt  cast  in  hir  eies  : 
And  yet  whence  it  came  neyther  we  nor  she  can  tell. 

M.  Mery.    We  shall  have  sport  anone  :    I  like  this  very  well. 
And  dwell  ye  here  with  mistresse  distance  faire  maide  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    Yea  mary  doe  I  sir:    what  would  ye  have  sayd?  20 

M.  Men.    A  little  message  unto  hir  by  worde  of  mouth. 

Tib.   Talk.    No  messages  by  your  leave,  nor  tokens  forsoth. 

M.  Mer\.    Then  help  me  to  speke  with  hir. 

Tibet.    With  a  good  wil  that. 

Here  she  commeth  forth.      Now  spcake  ye  know  best  what. 


140  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

[CUSTANCE  enters.^ 

C.  distance.    None  other  life  with  you  maide,  but  abrode  to  skip  ?    25 

Tib.   Talk.    Forsoth  here  is  one  would  speake  with  your  mistresship.1 

C.  Custance.    Ah,  have  ye  ben  learning  of  mo  messages  now  ? 

Tib.  Talk.    I  would  not  heare  his  minde,  but  bad  him  shewe  it  to  you. 

C.  Custance.    In  at  dores. 

Tib.   Talk.    I  am  gon.  Ex. 

M.  Mery.    Dame  Gustance  god  ye  save. 

C.  Custance.    Welcome   friend   Merygreeke  :   and  what   thing  wold 
ye  have  ?  Dili2     30 

M.  Mery.    I  am  come  to  you  a  little  matter  to  breake. 

C.  Custance.    But  see  it  be  honest,  else  better  not  to  speake. 

M.  Mery.    Howe  feele  ye  your  selfe  affected  here  of  late  ? 

C.  Custance.    I  feele  no  maner  chaunge  but  after  the  olde  rate. 

But  whereby  do  ye  meane?  35 

M.  Mery.    Concerning  mariage. 
Doth  not  love  lade  you  • 

C.  Custance.    I  feele  no  such  cariage.3 

M.  Mery.    Doe  ye  feele  no  pangues  of  dotage  ?   aunswere  me  right. 

C.  Custance.    I  dote  so,  that  I  make  but  one  sleepe  all  the  night 
But  what  neede  all  these  wordes  ? 

M.  Mery.    Oh  Jesus,  will  ye  see 

What  dissemblyng  creatures  these  same  women  be  ?  40 

The  gentleman  ye  wote  of,  whome  ye  doe  so  love, 

That  ye  woulde  fayne  marrie  him,  yf  ye  durst  it  move, 

Emong  other  riche  widowes,  which  are  of  him  glad, 

Lest  ye  for  lesing  of  him  perchaunce  might  runne  mad, 

Is  nowe  contented  that  upon  your  sute  making,  45 

Ye  be  as  one  in  election  of  taking. 

C.  Custance.    What  a  tale  is  this?   that  I  wote  of?   whome  I  love? 

M.  Mery.    Yea  and  he  is  as  loving  a  worme  againe  as  a  dove. 
Een  of  very  pitie  he  is  willyng  you  to  take, 
Bicause  ye  shall  not  destroy  your  selte  for  his  sake.  50 

C.  Custance.    Mary  God  yelde  his  mashyp  what  ever  he  be, 
It  is  gentmanly  spoken. 

1  Cf.  II.  iv,  26.  2  Wrong  signature  in  li.,  D.  v.  8  aurden. 


sc.  n]  Roister  Dot's ter  1 4 1 

M.  Mery.    Is  it  not  trowc  ye  ? 

If  ye  have  the  grace  now  to  offer  your  self,  ye  speede. 
C.  Custance.    As  muchc  as  though  I  did,  this  time  it  shall  not  nccde, 

But  what  gentman  is  it,  I  pray  you  tell  me  plaine,  55 

That  woweth  so  finely  ? 
M.  Mery.    Lo  where  ye  be  againe, 

As  though  ye  knewe  him  not. 
C.  Custance.    Tush  ye  speake  in  jest. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  sure,  the  partie  is  in  good  knacking1  earnest, 

And  have  you  he  will  (he  sayth)  and  have  you  he  must. 
C.  Custance.    I  am  promised  duryng  my  life,  that  is  just.  60 

M.  Mery.    Mary  so  thinketh  he,  unto  him  alone. 
C.  Custance.    No  creature  hath  my  faith  and  trouth  but  one, 

That  is  Gawin  Goodlucke  :   and  if  it  be  not  hee, 

He  hath  no  title  this  way  what  ever  he  be,  D  Hi  b 

Nor  I  know  none  to  whome  I  have  such  worde  spoken.  65 
M.  Mery.  Ye  knowe  him  not[,]  you[,]  by  his  letter  and  token  [!] 
C.  Custance.  In  dede  true  it  is,  that  a  letter  I  have, 

But  I  never  reade  it  yet  as  God  me  save. 
M.  Mery.    Ye  a  woman  ?   and  your  letter  so  long  unredde. 
C.  Custance.    Ye  may  therby  know  what  hast  I  have  to  wedde.     70 

But  now  who  it  is,  for  my  hande  I  knowe  by  gesse. 
M.  Mery.      Ah  well  I  say. 
C.  Custance.    It  is  Roister  Doister  doubtlesse. 
M.  Mery.    Will  ye  never  leave  this  dissimulation  ? 

Ye  know  hym  not. 
C.  Custance.    But  by  imagination, 

For  no  man  there  is  but  a  very  dolt  and  loute  75 

That  to  wowe  a  Widowe  woulde  so  go  about. 

He  shall  never  have  me  hys  wife  while  he  doe  live. 
M.  Mery.    Then  will  he  have  you  if  he  may,  so  mote  I  thrive, 

And  he  biddcth  you  scnde  htm  wordc  by  me, 

That  ye  humbly  beseech  him,  ye  may  his  wife  be,  80 

And  that  there  shall  be  no  let  in  you  nor  mistrust, 

But  to  be  wedded  on  suiulay  next  if  he  lust, 

And  biddeth  you  to  looke  for  him. 

1  Cf.  Appiui  and  firg.  (  Dodsley,  4,  121  )  :    "  it's  time  to  be  knacking,"  etc. 


142  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

C.  distance.    Doth  he  byd  so  ? 

M.  Mery.    When  he  commeth,  aske  hym  whether  he  did  or  no  ? 

C.  distance.    Goe  say,  that  I  bid  him  keepe  him  warme  at  home      85 

For  it  he  come  abroade,  he  shall  cough  me  a  mome.1 

My  mynde  was  vexed,  I  shrew  his  head  sottish  dolt. 

M.  Mery.    He  hath  in  his  head  [ ]2 

C.  distance.    As  much  braine  as  a  burbolt.3 

M.  Mery.    Well  dame  Custance,  if  he  heare  you  thus  play  choploge.4 

C.  Custance.    What  will  he  ?  90 

M.  Merv.    Play  the  devill  in  the  horologe.5 

C.  Custance.    I  defye  him  loute. 

M.  Mery.    Shall  I  tell  hym  what  ye  say  ? 

C.  Custance.    Yea  and  adde  what  so  ever  thou  canst,  I  thee  pray, 

And  I  will  avouche  it  what  so  ever  it  bee. 
M.  Mery.    Then  let  me  alone  we  will  laugh  well  ye  shall  see, 

It  will  not  be  long  ere  he  will  hither  resorte.  95 

C.  Custance.    Let    hym   come  when    hym    lust,   I    wishe    no  better 
sport. 

Fare  ye  well,  I  will  in,  and  read  my  great  letter. 

I  shall  to  my  wower  make  answere  the  better.        Exeat.       D  i\ 


Actus.  iii.      Scsena.  iii. 
MATHEW    MERYGREEKE.      ROISTER   DOISTER. 

M.  Mery.    Nowe  that  the  whole  answere  in  my  devise  doth  rest, 
I  shall  paint  out  our  wower  in  colours  of  the  best. 
And  all  that  I  say  shall  be  on  distances  mouth, 
She  is  author  of  all  that  I  shall  speake  forsoth. 

1  he  will  show  what  a  fool  he  is  ;  cf.  Skelton,  2,  254  :  "  thou  wylte  coughe  me  a  dawe  " 
fa  fole,  etc.  ).  -  K.  has  a  period. 

8  Cf.  Palsgr. :  Byrde  bolt  matteras  ;  Cotgrave,  s.v.  ' '. Matteras  '  ...  a  quarrell  [arrow] 
without  feathers,  ...  a  li^ht-brairTd  .  .  .  fellow. 

4  See  Udall's  Apophthegms  (  I  542,  af>ud  Murray)  :  "  chop-loguers  or  great  pratlers."  The 
word  originated  in  Protestant  derision  of  the  '  tropological '  and  'anagogical  '  senses  of  the  scholas- 
tics ;  cf.  Tindale  on  the  four  srnses  of  Scripture  (Obedience  r.f  a  Christian  Alan,  304,  307, 
308)  :  "we  must  seek  out  some  chopologu.il  sense." 

6  Cf.   Heywood,   Pro-v.   2,  ch.  4  ( I  09  )  ;    300  Epigrams,  p.    149,  etc. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  143 

But  yond  commeth  Roister  Doister  nowe  in  a  traunce.          5 
R.  Royster.     "Juno  sende  me  this  day  good  lucke  and  good  chaunce. 

I  can  not  but  come  see  how  Merygreeke  doth  specdc. 
M.  Mery  [aside],    I  will  not  see  him,  but  give  him  a  jutte  in  decde.1 

I  crie  your  mastershyp  mercie[!]  \running  bard  into  him] 

R.  Royster.    And  whither  now  ? 
M.  Mery.    As  fast  as  I  could  runne  sir  in  post  against  you.  10 

But  why  speake  ye  so  faintly,  or  why  are  ye  so  sad  ? 
R.  Royster.    Thou  knowest  the  proverbe,  bycause  I  can  not  be  had. 

Hast  thou  spoken  with  this  woman  ? 
M.  Mery.    Yea  that  I  have. 
R.  Royster.    And  what  will  this  geare  be  ? 
M.  Mery.    No  so  God  me  save. 

R.  Royster.    Hast  thou  a  flat  answer?  15 

M.  Mery,    Nay  a  sharp  answer. 
R.  Royster.    What 
M.  Mery.    Ye  shall  not  (she  sayth)  by  hir  will  marry  hir  cat. 

Ye  are  such  a  calfe,  such  an  asse,  such  a  blocke, 

Such  a  lilburne,2  such  a  hoball,8  such  a  lobcocke,4 

And  bicause  ye  shoulde  come  to  hir  at  no  season, 

She  despised  your  maship  out  of  all  reason.  20 

Bawawe5  what  ye  say  (ko  I)  of  such  a  jentman, 

Nay  I  feare  him  not  (ko  she)  doe  the  best  he  can. 

He  vaunteth  him  selfe  for  a  man  of  prowesse  greate, 

Where  as  a  good  gander  I  dare  say  may  him  beate. 

And  where  he  is  louted6  and  laughed  to  skorne,  25 

For  the  veriest  dolte  that  ever  was  borne, 

And  veriest  lubber,  sloven  and  beast, 

Living  in  this  worlde  from  the  west  to  the  east :  D  iv  h 

Yet  of  himselfe  hath  he  suche  opinion, 

That  in  all  the  worlde  is  not  the  like  minion."  30 

1  To  hit,  or  run  against  ( Baret,  1580,  cf.  Hall).  2  heavy,  stupid  fellow  (Halliwell). 

8  Cf.  Sherwood  :   a  Hob  (or  clowne).  *  lubber. 

6  Cf.  Baw  !   as  an  exclamation  of  contempt,  repudiation,  in  Pierce  I'/owm.,  C.  13,  74,  22, 
398    ("still  used  in   Lancashire  as  an  interjection  of  contempt  and  abhorrence,"  VVhitaker, 
1813,  cf.  Skeat).  6  humiliated;   Shak.,  /  Hen.   t'l.  (IV.  iii,  13). 

7  not  only  the  lover,  sweetheart,  etc.,  but  also  the  flatterer,  favorite  (of  a  prince),  despicable 
creature  (cf.  Cotgr.  ). 


J44  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

He  thinketh  eche  woman  to  be  brought  in  dotage 

With  the  onelv  sight  of  his  goodly  personage  : 

Yet  none  that  will  have  hym  :   we  do  hvm  loute  and  flocke,1 

And  make  him  among  us,  our  common  sporting  stocke, 

And  so  would  I  now  (ko  she)  save  onely  bicause,  35 

Better  nay  (ko  I)  I  lust  not  medle  with  dawes. 

Ye  are  happy  (ko  I)  that  ye  are  a  woman, 

This  would  cost  you  your  life  in  case  ye  were  a  man. 

R.  Royster.    Yea  an  hundred  thousand   pound   should   not  save  hir 
life. 

M.  Mery.    No  but  that  ye  wowe  hir  to  have  hir  to  your  wife,      40 
But  I  coulde  not  stoppe  hir  mouth. 

R.  Royster.    Heigh  how  alas, 

M.  Mery.    Be  of  good  cheere  man,  and  let  the  worlde  passe.2 

R.  Royster.    What  shall  I  doe  or  say  nowe  that  it  will  not  bee. 

M.  Mery.    Ye  shall  have  choice  of  a  thousande  as  good  as  shee, 

And  ye  must  pardon  hir,  it  is  for  lacke  of  witte.  45 

R.  Royster.    Yea,  for  were  not  I  an  husbande  for  hir  fitte  ? 
Well  what  should  I  now  doe  ? 

M.  Mery.    In  faith  I  can  not  tell. 

R.  Royster.    I  will  go  home  and  die. 

M.  Mery.    Then  shall  I  bidde  toll  the  bell  ? 

R.  Royster.    No. 

M.  Mery.    God  have  mercie  on  your  soule,  ah  good  gentleman, 

That  er  ye  shuld  th[u]s  dye  for  an  unkinde  woman,  50 

Will  ye  drinke  once  ere  ye  goe. 

R.  Royster.    No,  no,  I  will  none. 

M.  Mery.    How  feele  3  your  soule  to  God. 

R.  Royster.    I  am  nigh  gone. 

M.  Mery.    And  shall  we  hence  streight  ? 

R,  Royster.    Yea. 

M.  Mery.    Placebo  dilexl. 

1  a  Latinism  (foccifacere)  ;   used  also  in  Udall's  Parafbr.  to  Luke  (1545  ;   see  Phil.  Sue. 
Diet.). 

2  Cf.  Townelev  Myst.,  IOI ,  and  Trial  of  Treasure  ;    '  wynde,'  Four  Elem.  ;    "  let  the  world 
'  slide,'  "   Wit  and  Science. 

3  A    translation    from   the    Latin    Ordo    ad  vhitandum  infirmum    (interroget  turn   episcopus, 
yuomodo  credat  in  deum,  Maskell,  Mon.  Rit.,  I,  89). 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  145 

Maister  [RJoister  Doister  will  strcight  go  home  and  die.      /// 

infra.1  54 

R.  Royster.    Heigh  how,  alas,  the  pangs  of  death  my  hearte  do  brcake. 

M.  Mer\.    Holde  your  peace  tor  shame  sir,  a  dead   man   may  not 

speake. 

Nequando :   What  mourners  and  what  torches  shall  we  have  ? 
R.  Royster.    None. 
M.  Mery.    Dirige.      He  will  go  darklyng  to  his  grave, 

Neque,  lux,  neque  crux,  neque  mourners,  neque  clinke, 

He  will  steale  to  heaven,  unknowing  to  God  I  thinke.  60 

A  porta  inferi,  who  shall  your  goodcs  possesse  ? 

R.  Royster.    Thou    shalt    be   my    sectour,2  and   have  all   more   and 
lesse.  K  i 

M.  Mery.    Requiem  aternam.      Now  God  reward  your  mastershyp. 

And  I  will  crie  halfepenie  doale  for  your  worshyp. 

Come     forth     sirs,    heare    the     dolefull    newes    I    shall     you 

tell.  Ei'ocat  servos  milith,          65 

Our  good  maister  here  will  no  longer  with  us  dwell, 

But  in  spite  of  Custance,  which  hath  hym  weried, 

Let  us  see  his  mashyp  solemnely  buried. 

And  while  some  piece  of  his  soule  is  yet  hym  within, 

Some  part  of  his  funeralls  let  us  here  begin.  70 

Audmi  vocern,  All  men  take  heede  by  this  one  gentleman, 

Howe  you  sette  your  love  upon  an  unkinde  woman. 

For  these  women  be  all  such  madde  pievishe  elves, 

They  will  not  be  wonne  except  it  please  them  selves. 

But  in  fayth  Custance  if  ever  ye  come  in  hell,  75 

Maister  Roister  Doister  shall  serve  you  as  well. 

And  will  ye  needes  go  from  us  thus  in  very  deede  ? 

R.  Royster.    Yea  in  good  sadnesse  [!] 

M.  Mery.    Now  Jesus  Christ  be  your  speede. 

Good  night  Roger  olde  knave,  farewell  Roger  olde  knave, 
Good  night  Roger3  olde  knave,  knave  knap.  ut  infra* 

Pray  for  the  late  maister  Roister  Doisters  soule,  81 

And  come  forth  parish  Clarke,  let  the  passing  bell  toll. 

1  On  this  Mock  Requiem  see  p.  I  86  and  Appendix  K.  2  executor. 

3  O.  Sherwood  :    Roger  ban  temps,  a  mad  rasiall,  a  merry  greek.  *  See  p.   187. 


1 46  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

Pray  for  your  mayster  sirs,  and  for  hym  ring  a  peale.    Ad  servos 
He  was  your  right  good  maister  while  he  was  in  heale.   '"'HUs. 
$ui  Lazarum.  85 

^v>  J 

R.  Royster.    Heigh  how. 

M.  Mery.    Dead  men  go  not  so  fast 

In  Paradisum.  87 

R.  Royster.    Heihow. 
M.  Mery.    Soft,  heare  what  I  have  cast J 
R.  Royster.    I  will  heare  nothing,  I  am  past. 
M.  Mery.    Whough,  wellaway. 

Ye  may  tarie  one  houre,  and  heare  what  I  shall  say,  90 

Ye  were  best  sir  for  a  while  to  revive  againe, 

And  quite  them  er  ye  go. 
R.  Royster.  Trowest  thou  so? 
M.  Mery.  Ye  plain. 

R.  Royster.    How  may  I  revive  being  no  we  so  farre  past  ? 
M.  Merv.    I  will  rubbe  your  temples,  and  fette  you  againe  at  last. 
R.  Royster.    It  will  not  be  possible.  95 

M.  Mery  [rubbing  R.'s  temples  roughly}.    Yes  for  twentie  pounde. 
R.  Royster.    Armes[!]  2  what  dost  thou? 
M.  Mery.    Fet  you  again  out  of  your  sound  3 

By  this  crosse  ye  were  nigh  gone  in  deede,  I  might  feele 

Your  soule  departing  within  an  inche  of  your  heele.  E  i  b 

Now  folow  my  counsell. 
R.  Royster.    What  is  it  ? 
M.  Mery.    If  I  wer  you, 

Custance  should  eft  seeke  to  me,  ere  I  woulde  bowe.  100 

R.  Royster.    Well,  as  thou  wilt  have  me,  even  so  will  I  doe. 
M.  Mery.    Then  shall  ye  revive  againe  for  an  houre  or  two. 
R.  Royster.    As  thou  wilt  I  am  content  for  a  little  space. 
M.  Mery.    Good    happe    is    not    hastie:4    yet    in    space    com  [e]  th 
grace,5 

To  speake  with  Custance  your  selfe  shouldc  be  very  well,    105 

What  good  therof  may  come,  nor  I,  nor  you  can  tell. 

1  Cf.  I.  ii,  181  ;   I.  iv,  4;   II.  iii,  10,  etc.  3  swoon. 

2  by  God's  Armcs  !  4  Cf.  1.  iii,  1 1,   14. 
6  Heywood,  Pro-v.  i,  ch.  4  (17)  ;  Camden's  Pro-v.,  271. 


sc.  m]  Roister  Doister  147 

But  now  the  matter  standeth  upon  your  mariage, 

Ye  must  now  take  unto  you  a  lustie  courage.1 

Ye  may  not  speake  with  a  faint  heart  to  distance, 

But  with  a  lusty  breast2  and  countenance,  1 10 

That  she  may  knowe  she  hath  to  answere  to  a  man. 

R.  Royster.    Yes  I  can  do  that  as  well  as  any  can. 

M.  Mery.    Then  bicause  ye  must  Custance  face  to  face  wowe, 
Let  us  see  how  to  behave  your  selfe  ye  can  doe. 
Ye  must  have  a  portely  bragge  after  your  estate.  1 1  5 

R.  Roister.    Tushe,  I  can  handle  that  after  the  best  rate. 

M.  Mery.    Well  done,  so  loe,  up  man  with  your  head  and  chin, 
Up  with  that  snoute  man  :   so  loe,  nowe  ye  begin, 
So,    that    is    somewhat    like,    but[,]    prankie3    cote,    nay[,] 

whan[!] 

That  is  a  lustie  brute,4  handcs  under  your  side  man  :  120 

So  loe,  now  is  it  even  as  it  shoulde5  bee, 
That  is  somewhat  like,  for  a  man  of  your  degree. 
Then  must  ye  stately  goe,  jetting6  up  and  downe, 
Tut,  can  ye  no  better  shake  the  taile  of  your  gowne  ? 
There  loe,  such  a  lustie  bragge  it  is  ye  must  make.  125 

R.  Royster.    To  come  behind,  and   make  curtsie,  thou    must    som 
pains  take. 

M.  Mery.    Else  were  I  much  to  blame,  I  thanke  your  mastershyp  [,]  7 
The     lorde     one     day[ — Jail     to     begrime     you     with     wor- 
shyp,  [A/,  pushes  violently  against  R.] 

Backe  sir  sauce,8  let  gentlefolkcs  have  elbowe  roome, 
Voyde  sirs,  see  ye  not  maister  Roister  Doister  come  ?  130 

Make  place  my  maisters.  [Knocks  against  R.~] 

R.  Royster.    Thou  justlest  nowe  to  nigh. 

M.  Mery.    Back  al  rude  loutes.  E  ii 

1  H.  makes  the  rhyme  'carriage.' 

2  voice  ?  or  rather  courage. 

8  Cf.  Palsgr.  p.  664:  set  the  plyghtes  in  order. 

*  gallant;   cf.  I.  ii,   124,  and  the  Fourth  &ntf,  v.  7. 

6  A.  has  'should.' 

6  Cf.    Falsgr.   589  :   I  jette   with  facyon  and   countenaunce   to   set    forthe   my  selfe.      ye 
bragguc,  etc. 

7  K.  has  no  punctuation  after  '  mastershyp  '  or  '  lord  '  ;   A.  has  a  period  after  the  former. 
b  impudent  fellow  ! 


148  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

R.  Royster,    Tush. 

M.  Mery.    I  crie  your  maship  mercy 

Hoighdagh,  if  faire  fine  mistresse  Custance  sawe  you  now, 
Ralph  Royster  Doister  were  hir  owne  I  warrant  you. 

R.  Royster.    Neare  !  an  M  by  your  girdle  ?  2  135 

M.  Mery.    Your  good  mastershyps 

Maistershyp,  were  hir  owne  Mistreshyps  mistreshyps, 

Ye  were  take  3  up  for  haukes,  ye  were  gone,  ye  were  gone, 

But  now  one  other  thing  more  yet  I  thinke  upon. 

R.  Royster.    Shewe  what  it  is. 

M.  Mery.    A  wower  be  he  never  so  poore 

Must  play  and  sing  before  his  bestbeloves  doore,  140 

How  much  more  than  you  ? 

R.  Royster.    Thou  speakest  wel  out  of  dout. 

M.  Mery.    And  perchaunce  that  woulde  make  hir  the  sooner  com? 
out. 

R.  Royster.    Goe  call  my  Musitians,  bydde  them  high  apace. 

M.  Mery.    I  wyll  be  here  with  them  ere  ye  can  say  trey  ace.4      Exeat. 

R.  Royster.    This    was    well    sayde   of    Merrygreeke,    I    lowe    hys 
wit,  145 

Before  my  sweete  hearts  dore  we  will  have  a  fit[,]  " 
That  if  my  love  come  forth,  that  I  may  with  hir  talke, 
I  doubt  not  but  this  geare  shall  on  my  side  walke. 
But  lo,  how  well  Merygreeke  is  returned  sence. 

M.  Mery    [returning  with  the   musicians] .    There    hath    grown    no 
grasse  on  my  heele  since  I  went  hence,  150 

Lo  here  have  I  brought  that  shall  make  you  pastance. 

R.  Royster.    Come  sirs  let  us  sing  to  winne  my  deare  love  Custance. 

Can  tent.6 

M.  Mery.    Lo  where  she  commeth,  some  countenaunce  to  hir  make. 
And  ye  shall  heare  me  be  plaine  with  hir  for  your  sake.       154 

1  never. 

2  Cf.   Halliwell  :  to  keep  the  term  '  master '  out  of  sight,  to  be  wanting  in  proper  respect. 
[M.  makes  good  his  carelessness  in  the  next  verses  !] 

3  Cf.  'chose,'  I.  iv,  15. 

4  In  a  '  treyce  '  ;   the  French  way  of  counting  in  games;  cf.  ambi  ace,  syce  ace,  etc. 
6  This  seems  to  refer  to  the  '  Fourth  Song  '  at  the  end  of  the  play. 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  149 

Actus.  iii.     Soena.  iiii. 
CUSTANCE.      MERYGREEKE.      ROISTER  DOISTER. 

C.  Custance.    What  gaudyng1  and  foolyng  is  this  afore  my  doore  ? 

M.  Mery.    May  not  folks  be  honest,  pray  you,  though  they  be  pore  ? 

C.  Custance.    As  that  thing  may  be  true,  so  rich  folks  may  be  foolcs, 

R.  Royster.    Hir  talke  is  as  fine  as  she  had  learned  in  schooles. 

M.  Mery.  Looke  partly  towarde  hir,  and  drawe  a  little  nere.  E  ii  b 

C.  Custance.    Get  ye  home  idle  folkes.  6 

M.  Mery.    Why  may  not  we  be  here  ? 

Nay  and  ye  will  haze,2  haze  :  otherwise  I  tell  you  plaine, 
And  ye  will  not  haze,  then  give  us  our  geare  againc. 

C.  Custance.    In  deede  I  have  of  yours  much  gay  things  God  save  all. 

R.  Royster.    Speake  gently  unto  hir,  and  let  hir  take  all.  10 

M.  Mery.    Ye  are  to  tender  hearted  :   shall  she  make  us  dawes  ? 
Nay  dame,  I  will  be  plaine  with  you  in  my  friends  cause. 

R.  Royster.    Let  all  this  passe  sweete  heart  and  accept  my  service.3 

C.  Custance.    I  will  not  be  served  with  a  foole  in  no  wise, 

When  I  choose  an  husbande  I  hope  to  take  a  man.  15 

M.  Mery.    And  where  will  ye  finde  one  which  can  doe  that  he  can  ? 
Now  thys  man  towarde  you  being  so  kinde, 
You  not  to  make  him  an  answere  somewhat  to  his  minde. 

C.  Custance.    I  sent  him  a  full  answere  by  you  dyd  I  not  ? 

M.  Mery.    And  I  reported  it.  20 

C.  Custance.    Nay  I  must  speake  it  againe. 

R.  Royster.    No  no,  he  tolde  it  all. 

M.  Mery.    Was  I  not  metely  plaine  ? 

R.  Royster.    Yes. 

M.  Mery.    But  I  would  not  tell  all,  for  faith  if  I  had 

With  you  dame  Custance  ere  this  houre  it  had  been  bad, 

And  not  without  cause  :   for  this  goodly  personage, 

Ment  no  lesse  than  to  joyne  with  you  in  manage.  25 

1  As  early  as  the  Promptorium  Parvulorum  :   Gawde  or  jape  =  Nuga. 

2  C.,  'have  us.'  3  K.,  'sernice.' 


1 50  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

C.  Custance.    Let  him  wast  no  more  labour  nor  sute  about  me. 

M.  Mery.    Ye  know  not  where  your  preferment  lieth  I  see, 
He  sending  you  such  a  token,  ring  and  letter. 

C.  Custance.    Mary  here  it  is,  ye  never  sawe  a  better. 

M.  Mery.    Let  us  see  your  letter.  30 

C.  Custance.    Holde,  reade  it  if  ye  can. 

And  see  what  letter  it  is  to  winne  a  woman. 

M.  Mery  [takes  the  letter  and  reads'^ .    To   mine  owne  deare  coney 

birde,  swete  heart,  and  pigsny 

Good  Mistresse  Custance  present  these  by  and  by, 
Of  this  superscription  do  ye  blame  the  stile  ? 

C.  Custance.    With   the    rest   as   good    stuffe   as   ye    redde    a    great 
while.  35 

M.  Mery.    Sweete  mistresse  where  as  I  love  you  nothing  at  all,1 
Regarding  your  substance  and  richesse  chiefe  of  all, 
For  your  personage,  beautie,  demeanour  and  wit, 
I  commende  me  unto  you.  never  a  whit.  E  ill 

Sorie  to  heare  report  of  your  good  welfare.  40 

For  (as  I  heare  say)  suche  your  conditions  are, 
That  ye  be  worthie  favour  of  no  living  man, 
To  be  abhorred  of  every  honest  man. 
To  be  taken  for  a  woman  enclined  to  vice. 
Nothing  at  all  to  Vertue  gyving  hir  due  price.  45 

Wherfore  concerning  manage,  ye  are  thought 
Suche  a  fine  Paragon,  as  nere  honest  man  bought. 
And  nowe  by  these  presentes  I  do  you  advertise 
That  I  am  minded  to  marrie  you  in  no  wise. 
For  your  goodes  and  substance,  I  coulde  bee  content  50 

To  take  you  as  ye  are.      If  ye  mynde  to  bee  my  wyfe, 
Ye  shall  be  assured  for  the  tyme  of  my  lyfe, 
I  will  keepe  ye  ryght  well,  from  good  rayment  and  fare, 
Ye  shall  not  be  kepte  but  in  sorowe  and  care. 
Ye  shall  in  no  wyse  lyve  at  your  owne  libertie,  55 

Doe  and  say  what  ye  lust,  ye  shall  never  please  me, 

1  The  ambiguous  letter  finds  a  pre-Shakespt-arian  parallel  in  the  satirical  poem  on  ffomen 
printed  from  Add.  Ms.  17492,  tbl.  18,  in  Flugel's  Lesebucb,  p.  39  ;  and  in  the  poem  printed 
in  Ebert's  Jabrbucb,  14,  214. 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  1 5 1 

But  when  ye  are  mery,  I  will  be  all  sadde, 

When  ye  are  sory,  I  will  be  very  gladde. 

When  ye  seeke  your  heartes  ease,  I  will  be  unkinde, 

At  no  tyme,  in  me  shall  ye  muche  gentlenesse  finde.  6c 

But  all  things  contrary  to  your  will  and  minde, 

Shall  be  done  :  otherwise  I  wyll  not  be  behinde 

To  speake.     And  as  for  all  them  that  woulde  do  you  wrong 

I  will  so  helpe  and  mainteyne,  ye  l  shall  not  lyve  long. 

Nor  any  foolishe  dolte,  shall  cumbre  you  but  I.2  65 

I,  who  ere  say  nay,  wyll  sticke  by  you  tyll  I  die, 

Thus  good  mistresse  Custance,  the  lorde  you  save  and  kepe, 

From  me  Roister  Doister,  whether  I  wake  or  slepe. 

Who  favoureth  you  no  lesse,  (ye  may  be  bolde) 

Than  this  letter  purporteth,  which  ye  have  unfolde.  70 

C.  Custance.    Howe  by  this  letter  of  love  ?   is  it  not  fine  ? 

R.  Royster.    By  the  armes  of  Caleys  3  it  is  none  of  myne. 

M.  Afery.    Fie  you  are  fowle  to  blame,this  is  your  owne  hand.    K  iii  k 

C.  Custance.    Might  not  a  woman  be  proude  of  such  an  husbande  ? 

M.  Mery.    Ah  that  ye  would  in  a  letter  shew  such  despite.  75 

R.  Royster.    Oh  I  would  I  had  hym  here,  the  which  did  it  endite. 

M.  Mery.    Why  ye  made  it  your  selfe  ye  tolde  me  by  this  light. 

R.  Royster.    Yea  I  ment  I  wrote  it  myne  owne  selfe  yesternight. 

C.  Custance.    Ywis  sir,  I  would  not  have  sent  you  such  a  mocke. 

R.  Royster.    Ye  may  so  take  it,  but  I  ment  it  not  so  by  cocke.      80 

M.  Mery.   Who  can   blame   this   woman   to  fume   and    frette  and 


rage 


Tut,  tut,  your  selfe  nowe  have  marde  your  owne  marriage. 

Well,  yet  mistresse  Custance,  if  ye  can  this  remitte, 

This  gentleman  other  wise  may  your  love  requitte.  84 

C.    Custance.    No   God  be  with  you  both,  and  seeke4  no  more  to 
me.  Exeat. 

R.  Royster.    Wough,  she  is  gone  for  ever,  I  shall  hir  no  more  see. 

1  Cf.  Ill    v,  77,  where  R    should  have  written  or  inserted  '  y'1,'  thus  obviating  the  neces- 
sity of  resortirvg  to  bad  grammar —  '  they  '  for  '  them.1 

2  See  Appendix  H  under  '  Arber.' 

8  Cf.  IV.  vii,  48;  an  oath   in  Skelton's   Magnif.    685  (and   Boivgc,  398).      Calais  wa« 
lost  to  the  English  January  20,  1558. 
4  Cf.  v.  no,  122;   II.  iii,  17,  etc. 


152  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

M.  Mery.    What  weepe  ?   fye  for  shame,  and  blubber  ?   for  manhods 
sake, 

Never  lette  your  foe  so  muche  pleasure  of  you  take. 

Rather  play  the  mans  paite,  and  doe  love  refraine. 

If  she  despise  you  een  despise  ye  hir  againe.  90 

R.  Royster.    By  gosse  l  and  for  thy  sake  I  defye  hir  in  deede. 
M.  Mery.   Yea  and  perchaunce  that  way  ye  shall  much  sooner  speede, 

For  one  madde  propretie  these  women  have  in  fey, 

When  ye  will,  they  will  not :   Will  not  ye,  then  will  they. 

Ah  foolishe  woman,  ah  moste  unluckie  distance,  95 

Ah  unfortunate  woman,  ah  pievishe  Custance, 

Art  thou  to  thine  harmes  so  obstinately  bent, 

That  thou  canst  not  see  where  lieth  thine  high  preferment  ? 

Canst  thou  not  lub2  dis  man,  which  coulde  lub  dee  so  well  ? 

Art  thou  so  much  thine  own  foe[?J  100 

R.  Royster.    Thou  dost  the  truth  tell. 
M.  Mery.    Wei  I  lament. 
R.  Royster.    So  do  I. 
M.  Mery.    Wherfor  ? 
R.  Royster.    For  this  thing 

Bicause  she  is  gone. 

M.  Mery.    I  mourne  for  an  other  thing. 

R.  Royster.    What  is  it  Merygreeke,  wherfore  thou  dost  griefe  take  ? 
M.  Mery.    That  I  am  not  a  woman  myselfe  for  your  sake, 

I  would  have  you  my  selfe,  and  a  strawe  for  yond  Gill,       105 

And  mocke3  much  of  you  though  it  were  against  my  will. 

I  would  not  I  warrant  you,  fall  in  such  a  rage,  E  iv 

As  so  to  refuse  suche  a  goodly  personage. 
R.  Royster.    In  faith  I  heartily  thanke  thee  Merygreeke. 
M.  Mery.    And  I  were  a  woman.  110 

R.  Royster.    Thou  wouldest  to  me  seeke. 
M.  Mery.    For  though  I  say  it,  a  goodly  person  ye  bee. 
R.  Royster.    No,  no. 

M.  Mery.    Yes  a  goodly  man  as  ere  I  dyd  sec. 
R.  Royster.    No,  I  am  a  poore  homelv  man  as  God  made  mee. 

1  =  Gog's.      R.'s  oaths  gain  force  with  his  misfortune. 

2  Cf.  I.  ii,   146.  3  make;   cf.  I.  iv,   18. 


sc.  mi]  Roister  Doister  153 

M.  Mtry.    By  the  faith  that  I  owe  to  God  sir,  but  ye  bee. 

Woulde   I    might    for   your   sake,   spend    a    thousande    pound 
land.  1 1 5 

R.  Royster.    I  dare  say  thou  wouldest  have  me  to  thy  husbande. 
M.  Mery.    Yea  :   And  I  were  the  fairest  lady  in  the  shiere, 

And  knewe  you  as  I  know  you,  and  see  you  nowe  here. 

Well  I  say  no  more. 

R.  Royster.    Grammercies  with  all  my  hart. 

M.  Mery.    But  since  that  can  n/>t  be,  will  ye  play  a  wise  parte  ?  I  20 
R.  Royster.    How  should  I  ? 
M.  Mery.    Refraine  l  from  Custance  a  while  now. 

And  I  warrant  hir  soone  right  glad  to  seeke  to  you, 

Ye  shall  see  hir  anon  come  on  hir  knees  creeping. 

And  pray  you  to  be  good  to  hir  sake  teares  weeping. 
R.  Royster.    But  what  and  she  come  not?  125 

M.  Mery.    In  faith  then  farewel  she. 

Or  else  if  ye  be  wroth,  ye  may  avenged  be. 
R.  Royster.    By  cocks  precious  potsticke,  and  een  so  I  shall. 

I  wyll  utterly  destroy  hir,  and  house  and  all, 

But  I  woulde  be  avenged  in  the  meane  space, 

On  that  vile  scribler,  that  did  my  wowyng  disgrace.  130 

M.  Mery.    Scribler  (ko  you)  in  deede  he  is  worthy  no  lesse. 

I  will  call  hym  to  you,  and  ye  bidde  me  doubtlesse. 
R.  Royster.    Yes,  for  although  he  had  as  many  lives, 

As  a  thousande  widowes,  and  a  thousande  wives, 

As  a  thousande  lyons,  and  a  thousand  rattes,  135 

A  thousande  wolves,  and  a  thousande  cattes, 

A  thousande  bulles,  and  a  thousande  calves, 

And  a  thousande  legions  divided  in  halves, 

He  shall  never  scape  death  on  my  swordes  point, 

Though  I  shoulde  be  torne  therfore  joynt  by  joynt  140 

M.  Mery.    Nay,  if  ye  will  kyll  him,  I  will  not  fette  him,  K  iv  h 

I  will  not  in  so  muche  extremitic  settc  him, 

He  may  yet  amende  sir,  and  be  an  honest  man, 

Therefore  pardon  him  good  soule,  as  muche  as  ye  can. 

1  Pahrstrio  (  Jlliltf  G/or.  1244)  :    Nam  tu  tc  vilem  fecerit  .  .  .  Sine  ultro  -venial,  jutesitft, 
JesiJcrct,  exspcctct. 


1 54  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

R.  Royster.    Well,  for  thy   sake,  this  once  with   his  lyfe  he  shall 
passe,  145 

But  I  wyll  hewe  hym  all  to  pieces  by  the  Masse. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  fayth  ye  shall  promise  that  he  shall  no  harme  have, 

Else  I  will  not  set  him. 
R.  Royster.    I  shall  so  God  me  save. 

But  I  may  chide  him  a  good.1 
M.  Mery.    Yea  that  do  hardely. 

R.  Royster.    Go  then.  150 

M.  Mery.    I  returne,  and  bring  him  to  you  by  and  by.  Ex. 


Actus  iii.     Scasna  v. 
ROISTER  DOISTER.      MATHEWE  MERYGREEKE.      SCRIVENER. 

R.  Royster.    What  is  a  gentleman  but  his  worde  and  his  promise  ? 
I  must  nowe  save  this  vilaines  lyfe  in  any  wife, 
And  yet  at  hym  already  my  handes  doe  tickle, 
I  shall  uneth  holde  them,  they  wyll  be  so  fickle. 
But  lo  and  Merygreeke  have  not  brought  him  sens  ?  5 

M.  Mery  [entering  with  the  Scrlv^\ .    Nay   I   woulde   I   had   of  my 
purse  payde  fortie  pens. 

Scrivener.    So  woulde  I  too  :   but  it  needed  not  that  stounde, 

M.  Mery.    But  the  jentman  2  had  rather  spent  five  thousande  pounde, 
For  it  disgraced  him  at  least  five  tymes  so  muche. 

Scrivener.    He  disgraced  hym  selfe,  his  loutishnesse  is  suche.          10 

R.  Royster.    Howe  long  they   stande    prating  ?       Why   comst  thou 
not  away  ? 

M.  Mery.    Come  nowe  to  hymselfe,  and  hearke  what  he  will  say. 

Scrivener.    I  am  not  afrayde  in  his  presence  to  appeere. 

R.  Royster.    Arte  thou  come  felow  ? 

Scrivener.     How  thinke  you?   am  I  not  here?  14 

R.  Royster.    What  hindrance  hast  thou  done  me,  and  what  villanie  ? 

Scrivener.    It  hath  come  of  thy  selfe,  if  thou  hast  had  any. 

1  Cf.  Tindale,    1462  [/''v//.    Jonas]  :    "the   heathen    Ninivites   though   they   were   blinded 
with  lusts  a  good  "  ;    Tiuo  G.  nf  I'.,  IV.  iv,   i  70  :    "  weep  agood."          '2  Cf.  111.  ii,  52. 


sc.  v]  Roister  Doister  155 

R.  Royster.    All  the  stocke  thou  comest  of  later  or  rather,1 
From  thy  fyrst  fathers  grandfathers  fathers  father, 
Nor  all  that  shall  come  of  thee  to  the  worldes  ende,  F  i 

Though  to  three  score  generations  they  descendc,  20 

Can  be  able  to  make  me  a  just  recompense, 
For  this  trcspasse  of  thine  and  this  one  offense. 

Scrivener.    Wherin  ? 

R.  Royster.    Did  not  you  make  me  a  letter  brother?2 

Scrivener.    Pay  the  like  hire,  I  will  make  you  suche  an  other. 

R.  Royster.    Nay  see  and  these  whooreson  Phariseys  and  Scribes  25 
Doe  not  get  their  livyng  by  polling3  and  bribes.4 
If  it  were  not  for  shame    \_advances  towards  the  Scr.  to  strike  bim.~\ 

Scrivener.**    Nay  holde  thy  hands  still. 

M.  Mery.    Why  [,]    did  ye  not   promise    that   ye   would    not    him 
spill  ?' 

Scrivener  [prepares  to  figbt~\  .    Let  him  not  spare  me.  [Strifes  R.] 

R.  Royster.    Why  wilt  thou  strike  me  again? 

Scrivener.   Ye  shall  have  as  good  as  ye  bring  of  me  that  is  plaine.  30 

M.  Mery.    I  can   not  blame  him  sir,  though  your  blowes  wold  him 

greve. 
For  he  knoweth  present  death  to  ensue  of  all  ye  geve. 

R.  Royster.    Well,  this  man  for  once  hath  purchased  thy  pardon. 

Scrivener.    And  what  say  ye  to  me  ?   or  else  I  will  be  gon. 

R.  Royster.    I  say  the  letter  thou  madest  me  was  not  good.  35 

Scrivener.    Then  did  ye  wrong  copy  it  of  likely  hood. 

R.  Royster.    Yes,  out  of  thy  copy  worde  for  worde  I  wrote. 

Scrivener.    Then  was  it  as  ye  prayed  to  have  it  I  wote, 

But  in  reading  and  pointyng  there  was  made  some  faulte. 

R.  Royster.    I  wote  not,  but  it  made  all  my  matter  to  haulte.         40 

Scrivener.    How  say  you,  is  this  mine  original!  or  no  ? 

R.  Royster.    The  selfe  same  that  I  wrote  out  of,  so  mote  I  go. 

Scrivener.    Loke  you  on  your  owne  fist,15  and  I  will  looke  on  this. 
And  let  this  man  be  judge  whether  I  reade  amisse. 

1  sooner.  -  Cf.   'cousin,'  III.  i,  4.  3  swindling. 

4  robbing;    Palsgr.  465  :    I  bribe,  I  pull,  I  pyll  !      le  bribe  (  Romant),  je  dcn,bbc.  .  .      \l< 
bribeth  and  he  polleth. 

^  So  in  K.  ;    A.,  C.,  and  H.  give  the  words  "  Nay  .  .  .  still  "  to  Alery  unnecessarily . 
6  R.  had  received  his  copy  back  from  Custance  ! 


156  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  m 

To  myne  owne  dere  coney  birde,  sweete  heart,  and  pigsny,1  45 
Good  mistresse  Custance,  present  these  by  and  by. 
How  now  ?   doth  not  this  superscription  agree  ? 

R.  Royster.  Reade  that  is  within,  and  there  ye  shall  the  fault  see. 

Scrivener.    Sweete  mistresse,  where  as  I  love  you,  nothing  at  all 

Regarding  your  richesse  and  substance  :   chiefe  of  all  50 

For  your  personage,  beautie,  demeanour  and  witte 
I  commende  me  unto  you  :   Never  a  whitte 
Sory  to  heare  reporte  of  your  good  welfare.  F  i  b 

For  (as  I  heare  say)  suche  your  conditions  are, 
That  ye  be  worthie  favour:   of  no  living  man  55 

To  be  abhorred  :   of  every  honest  man 
To  be  taken  for  a  woman  enclined  to  vice 
Nothing  at  all  :   to  vertue  giving  hir  due  price. 
Wherefore  concerning  mariage,  ye  are  thought 
Suche  a  fine  Paragon,  as  nere  honest  man  bought.  60 

,    And  nowe  by  these  presents  I  doe  you  advertise, 
That  I  am  minded  to  marrie  you  :    In  no  wyse 
For  your  goodes  and  substance  :   I  can  be  content 
To  take  you  as  you  are  :  yf  ye  will  be  my  wife, 
Ye  shall  be  assured  for  the  time  of  my  life,  65 

I  wyll  keepe  you  right  well :   from  good  raiment  and  fare, 
Ye  shall  not  be  kept  :   but  in  sorowe  and  care 
Ye  shall  in  no  wyse  lyve  :   at  your  owne  libertie, 
Doe  and  say  what  ye  lust :   ye  shall  never  please  me 
But  when  ye  are  merrie  :   I  will  bee  all  sadde  70 

When  ye  are  sorie  :   I  wyll  be  very  gladde 
When  ye  seeke  your  heartes  ease  :   I  will  be  unkinde 
At  no  time  :   in  me  shall  ye  muche  gentlenesse  rinde. 
But  all  things  contrary  to  your  will  and  minde 
Shall  be  done  otherwise:   I  wyll  not  be  behynde  75 

To  speake  :   And  as  for  all  they  that  woulde  do  you  wrong, 
(I  wyll  so  helpe  and  maintayne  ye)  shall  not  Ivve  long. 
Nor  any  foolishe  dolte  shall  cumber  you,  but  I, 
I,  who  ere  say  nay,  wyll  sticke  by  you  tyll  I  die. 
Thus  good  mistresse  Custance,  the  lorde  you  save  and  kepc.  80 

1  Omitted  in  A. 


sc.  v]  Roister  Doister  1 57 

From  me  Roister  Doister,  whether  I  wake  or  slepe, 
Who  favoureth  you  no  lesse,  (ye  may  be  bolcle) 
Than  this  letter  purporteth,  which  ye  have  unfolde. 
Now  sir,  what  default  can  ye  finde  in  this  letter  ? 

R.  Royster.    Of  truth  in  my  mynde  there  can  not  be  a  better.        85 

Scrivener.    Then  was  the  fault  in  readyng,  and  not  in  writyng, 

No  nor  I  dare  say  in  the  fourme  of  endityng,  K  ii 

But  who  read  this  letter,  that  it  sounded  so  nought  ? 

M.  Mery.    I  redde  it  in  deede. 

Scrivener.    Ye  red  it  not  as  ye  ought. 

R.  Royster.    Why  thou  wretched  villaine  was  all  this  same  fault  in 
thee  ?  [Advances  angrily  against  A/.]     90 

M.  Mery  \stnkes  R.]  .    I  knocke  your  costarde  1  if  ye  offer  to  strike 
me. 

R.  Royster.    Strikest  thou  in  deede  ?  and  I  offer  but  in  jest  ? 

M.  Mery.    Yea  and  rappe  you  againe  except  ye  can  sit  in  rest. 
And  I  will  no  longer  tarie  here  me  beleve. 

R.  Royster.    What  wilt  thou  be  angry,  and  I  do  thee  forgeve  ?       95 
Fare  thou  well  scnbler,  I  crie  thee  mercie  in  deede. 

Scrivener.    Fare  ye  well  bibblej,  and  worthily  may  ye  speede. 

R.  Royster.    If  it  were  an  other  but  thou,  it  were  a  knave. 

M.  Mery.    Ye  are  an  other  your  selfe  sir,  the  lorde  us  both  save, 
Albeit  in  this  matter  I  must  your  pardon  crave,  100 

Alas  woulde  ye  wyshe  in  me  the  witte  that  ye  have  ? 
But  as  for  my  fault  I  can  quickely  amende, 
I  will  shewe  Custance  it  was  I  that  did  offende. 

R.  Royster.    By  so  doing  hir  anger  may  be  reformed. 

M.  Mery.    But  if  by  no  entreatie  she  will  be  turned,  105 

Then  sette  lyght  by  hir  and  bee  as  testie  as  shee, 
And  doe  your  force  upon  hir  with  extremitie. 

R.  Roister.    Come  on  therefore  lette  us  go  home  in  sadnesse. 

M.  Mery.    That  if  force  shall  neede  all  may  be  in  a  readinesse,2 

And  as  for  thys  letter  hardely  3  let  all  go,  1 10 

We  wyll  know  where4  she  refuse  you  for  that  or  no. 

Exeant  am\_bo.~\ 

1  head  ;  cf.  G.  G.  N.,  p.  250  ;    Hickscurner,  p.   168,  etc.        -  H.  gives  this  line  to  R. 
*  by  all  means;  cf.   I.  ii,   175  ;    IV,  iii,  41,  etc.  *  whether. 


158  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi. 


Actus  iiii.     Scaena  i. 

SYM  SURESBY. 

Sim  Sure.    Is  there  any  man  but  I  Sym  Suresby  alone, 

That  would  have  taken  such  an  enterprise  him  upon, 

In  suche  an  outragious  tempest  as  this  was. 

Suche  a  daungerous  gulfe  of  the  sea  to  passe.  F  ii  b 

I  thinke  verily  Neptunes  mightie  godshyp,  5 

Was  angry  with  some  that  was  in  our  shyp, 

And  but  for  the  honestie  which  in  me  he  founde, 

I  thinke  for  the  others  sake  we  had  bene  drownde. 

But  fye  on  that  servant  which  for  his  maisters  wealth1 

Will  sticke  for  to  hazarde  both  his  lyfe  and  his  health.  10 

My  maister  Gawyn  Goodlucke  after  me  a  day 

Bicause  of  the  weather,  thought  best  hys  shyppe  to  stay, 

And  now  that  I  have  the  rough  sourges  so  well  past, 

God  graunt  I  may  finde  all  things  safe  here  at  last. 

Then  will  I  thinke  all  my  travaile  well  spent.  15 

Nowe  the  first  poynt  wherfore  my  maister  hath  me  sent 

Is  to  salute  dame  Christian  Custance  his  wife2 

Espoused  :   whome  he  tendreth  no  lesse  than  his  life, 

I  must  see  how  it  is  with  hir  well  or  wrong, 

And  whether  for  him  she  doth  not  now  thinke  long  :  20 

Then  to  other  friendes  I  have  a  message  or  tway, 

And  then  so  to  returne  and  mete  him  on  the  way. 

Now  wyll  I  goe  knocke  that  I  may  dispatche  with  speede, 

But  loe  forth  commeth  hir  selfe  happily  in  deede. 

Actus  iiii.     Scaena  ii. 

CHRISTIAN   CUSTANCE.      SIM.  SURESBY. 

C.  Custance.    I  come  to  see  if  any  more  stirryng  be  here, 
But  what  straunger  is  this,  which  doth  to  me  appere  ? 

1  welfare;   cf.  Prol.   10. 

2  Cf.  '  spouse,'  etc.,  I.  v,  9  ;   IV.  iii,  41.      E.  has  comma  between  '  wife  '  and  '  Espoused.' 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  \  59 

Sym  Surs.    I  will    speake    to    hir:    Dame  the   lorde    you   save   and 

see. 
C.  Custance.    What  friendc  Sym  Surcsby  ?      Forsoth  right  welcome 

ye  be, 

Howe  doth  mine  owne  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  I  pray  the  tell  ?    5 
S.  Suresby.    When   he   knoweth   of  your  health  he   will  be  perfect 

well. 

C.  Custance.    If  he  have  perfect  helth,  I  am  as  I  would  be.  F  iii 

Sim.  Sure.    Suche  newes  will  please  him  well,  this  is  as  it  should  be. 
C.  distance.    I  thinke  now  long  for  him. 

Sym  Sure.    And  he  as  long  for  you.  10 

C.  Custance.    When  wil  he  be  at  home  ? 
Sym  Sure.    His  heart  is  here  een  now 

His  body  commeth  after. 
C.  Custance.    I  woulde  see  that  faine. 

Sim  Sure.    As  fast  as  wynde  and  sayle  can  cary  it  a  maine. 
But  what  two  men  are  yonde  comming  hitherwarde  ? 
C.  Custance.    Now   I   shrew  their   best   Christmasse  chekes  J   both 

togetherward.  14 

Actus.  iiii.     Scaena.  iii. 

CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE.      SYM  SURESBY.      RALPH  ROISTER.      MATHEW 
MERYGREKE.      TRUPENY. 

C.  Custance.    What  meane  these  lewde  felowes  thus  to  trouble  me 
stil  ? 

Sym  Suresby  here  perchance  shal  thcrof  deme  som  yll. 

And  shall  su[s]pect2  in  me  some  point  of  naughtinesse, 

And  they  come  hitherward. 
Sim  Sure.    What  is  their  businesse  ? 

C.  Custance.    I  have  nought  to  them,  nor  they  to  me  in  sadnesse.   5 
Sim  Sure.    Let  us  hearken  them,  somewhat  there  is  I  feare  it. 
R.  Royster.    I  will  speake  out  aloude  best,  that  she  may  heare  it. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  alas,  ye  may  so  feare  hir  out  of  hir  wit. 
R.  Royster.    By  the  crosse  of  my  sworde,  I  will  hurt  hir  no  whit. 

1  Cf.  V.  iv,  28;    'cheek'  here  like  'eyes,'   'teeth.'  2  E.,  '  supect.' 


160  Roister  Doister  {ACT.  mi 

M.  Mery.    Will  ye  doe  no  harme  in  deede,  shall  I  trust  your  worde?   i  o 

R.  Royster.    By     Roister    Doisters     fayth    I    will     speake    but    in 
horde. 

Sim  Sure.    Let  us  hearken  them,  somwhat  there  is  I  feare  it. 

R.  Royster.    I  wi^l  speake  out  aloude,  I  care  not  who  heare  it : 
Sirs,  see  that  my  harnesse,  my  tergat,  and  my  shield, 
Be  made  as  bright  now,  as  when  I  was  last  in  fielde,  15 

As  white  as  I  shoulde  to  warre  againe  to  morrowe  : 
For  sicke  shall  I  be,  but  I  worke  some  folke  sorow. 
Therfore  see  that  all  shine  as  bright  as  sainct  George, 
Or  as  doth  a  key  newly  come  from  the  Smiths  forge. 
I     woulde     have     my     sworde     and     harnesse     to     shine     so 
bright,1  F  iii  b      20 

That  I  might  therwith  dimme  mine  enimies  sight, 
I  would  have  it  cast  beames  as  fast  I  tell  you  playne, 
As  doth  the  glittryng  grasse  after  a  showre  of  raine. 
And  see  that  in  case  I  shoulde  neede  to  come  to  arming, 
All  things  may  be  ready  at  a  minutes  warning,  25 

For  such  chaunce  may  chaunce  in  an  houre,  do  ye  heare  ? 

M.  Mery.    As  perchance  shall  not  chaunce  againe  in  seven  yeare. 

R.  Royster.    Now  draw  we  neare  to  hir,  and  here  what  shall  be  sayde. 

[Advances  towards  Cust.~^ 

M.  Mery.    But  I  woulde  not  have  you  make  hir  too  muche  afrayde. 

R.  Royster.    Well  founde  sweete  wife2  (I  trust)  for  al  this  your  soure 
looke.  30 

C.  Custance.    Wife,  why  cal  ye  me  wife?       CA^'d-eJ 

Sim  Sure,  \jttters  wMh-^k£^t^~~words_ar.e--spa&ja\ .    Wife  ?  this  gear 
goth  acrook. 

M.  Mery.    Nay  mistresse  Custance,  I  warrant  you,  our  letter 
Is  not  as  we  redde  een  nowe,  but  much  better, 
And  where  ye  halfe  stomaked  this  gentleman  afore, 
For  this  same  letter,  ye  wyll  love  hym  now  therefore,  35 

Nor  it  is  not  this  letter,  though  ye  were  a  queene, 
That  shoulde  breake  marriage  betweene  you  twaine  I  weene. 

C.  Custance.    I  did  not  refuse  hym  for  the  letters  sake. 

R.  Royster.    Then  ye  are  content  me  for  your  husbande  to  take. 

*  Taken  from  Plautus,  Mil.  Glor.  I.   i.  *  Cf.  IV.  i,  17. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister  1 6 1 

C.  Custance.    You  for  my  husbande  to  take  ?  nothing  lesse  trucly.  40 
R.  Royster.    Yea  say  so,  swccte  spouse,  afore  straungers  hardly. 
Af.  Afery.    And  though  I  have  here  his  letter  of  love  with  me, 

Yet  his  ryng  and  tokens  he  sent,  keepe  safe  with  ye. 
C.  Custance.    A  mischiefc  take  his  tokens,  and  him  and  thee  too. 

But  what  prate  I  with  fooles  ?   have  I  nought  else  to  doo  ?    45 

Come  in  with  me  Sym  Suresby  to  take  some  repast. 
Sim  Sure.    I  must  ere  I  drinke  by  your  leave,  goe  in  all  hast, 

To  a  place  or  two,  with  earnest  letters  of  his. 
C.  Custance.    Then  come  drink  here  with  me. 
Sim  Sure.    I  thank  you. 
C.  Custance.    Do  not  misse. 

You  shall  have  a  token  to  your  maister  with  you.  50 

Sym  Sure.    No  tokens  this  time  gramercies,  God  be  with  you. 

Exeat. 
C.  Custance.    Surely  this  fellowe  misdeemeth  some  yll  in  me. 

Which  thing  but  God  helpe,  will  go  nee  re  to  spill  me. 
R.  Royster.    Yea  farewell  fellow,  and  tell  thy  maister  Goodlucke 

That  he  cometh  to  late  of  thys  blossome  to  plucke.       F  i\     55 

Let  him  keepe  him  there  still,  or  at  least  wise  make  no  hast. 

As  for  his  labour  hither  he  shall  spende  in  wast. 

His  betters  be  in  place  nowe. 
M.  Mery  \_aside^ .    As  long  as  it  will  hold. 
C.  Custance.    I  will  be  even  with  thee  thou  beast,  thou   mayst  be 

bolde. 

R.  Royster.    Will  ye  have  us  then?  60 

C.  Custance.    I  will  never  have  thee.1 
R.  Royster.    Then  will  I  have  you  ! 
C.  Custance.    No,  the  devill  shall  have  thee. 

I  have  gotten  this  houre  more  shame  and  harme  by  thee, 

Then  all  thy  life  days  thou  canst  do  me  honestic. 
M.  Mery  [to  Roister}.    Why  nowe  may  ye  see  what   it   comth  too 
in  the  ende, 

To  make  a  deadly  foe  of  your  most  loving  frendc  :  65 

[70  Custance].    And  ywis  this  letter  if  ye  woulde  heare  it  now  — 
C.  Custance.    I  will  heare  none  of  it. 

1  Note  the  '  thee  '  and  '  you.' 


1 62  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

M.  Mery  \_to  Cust.~\ .    In  faith  would  ravishe  you. 

C.  distance.    He  hath  stained  my  name  for  ever  this  is  cleare. 

R.  Royster.    I  can  make  all  as  well  in  an  houre  — 

M.  Mery  [aside]  .    As  ten  yeare  — 

[To  Gust.].    How  say  ye,  will  ye  have  him  ?  70 

C.  distance.    No. 
M.  Mery.    Will  ye  take  him  ? 
C.  distance.    I  defie  him. 
M.  Mery.    At  my  word  ? 
C.  distance.    A  shame  take  him. 

Waste  no  more  wynde,  for  it  will  never  bee. 
M.  Men.    This  one  faulte  with  twaine  shall  be  mended,  ye  shall  see. 

Gentle  mistresse  Custance  now,  good  mistresse  Custance, 

Honey  mistresse  Custance  now,  sweete  mistresse  Custance,   75 

Golden  mistresse  Custance  now,  white  l  mistresse  Custance, 

Silken  mistresse  Custance  now,  faire  mistresse  Custance.—— 
C.  Custance.    Faith  rather  than  to  mary  with  suche  a  doltishe  loute, 

I  woulde  matche  my  selfe  with  a  beggar  out  of  doute. 
M.  Mery.    Then  I  can  say  no  more,  to  speede  we  are  not  like,    80 

Except  ye  _rappe  out  a  ragge  of  your  Rhetorike. 
C.  Custance.    Speake  not  of  winnyng  me  :  'for  it  shall  never  be  so. 
R.  Royster.    Yes  dame,  I  will  have  you  whether  ye  will  or  no, 

I  commaunde  you  to  love  me,  wherfore  shoulde  ye  not  ? 

Is  not  my  love  to  you  chafing  and  burning  hot  ?  85 

M.  Mery.    Too  hir,  that  is  well  sayd. 
R.  Royster.    Shall  I  so  breake  my  braine 

To  dote  upon  you,  and  ye  not  love  us  againe  ? 
M.  Mery.    Wei  sayd  yet. 
C.  Custance.    Go  to   [,]   you  goose. 
R.  Royster.    I  say  Kit  Custance, 

In  case  ye  will  not  haze,2  well,  better  yes  perchaunce.         F  iv  b 
C.  Custance.    Avaunt  lozell,3  picke  thee  hence.  90 

M.  Mery.    Well  sir,  ye  perceive, 

For  all  your  kinde  offer,  she  will  not  you  receive. 
R.  Royster.    Then  a  strawe  for  hir,  and  a  strawe  for  hir  againe, 

She  shall  not  be  my  wife,  woulde  she  never  so  faine, 

1  Cf.  I.  i,  49.  2  Cf.  III.  iv,  7,  8.  3  lubber  or  lout. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister-  163 

No  and  though  she  would  be  at  ten  thousand  pounde  cost. 
M.  Mery.    Lo  dame,  ye  may  see  what  an  husbande  ye  have  lost.   95 
C.  Custance.    Yea,    no    force,    a    Jewell    muche    better    lost    than 

founde. 
M.  Mery.    Ah,  ye  will  not  beleve  how  this  doth  my  heart  woundc. 

How  shoulde  a  manage  betwene  you  be  towarde, 

If  both  parties  drawe  backe,  and  become  so  frowarde. 
R.  Royster  [threatening,  advancing  upon    6W.].    Nay   dame,   I   will 
fire  thee  out  of  thy  house,1  100 

And  destroy  thee  and  all  thine,  and  that  by  and  by. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  for  the  passion  of  God  sir,  do  not  so. 
R.  Royster.    Yes,  except  she  will  say  yea  to  that  she  sayd  no. 
C.  Custance.    And  what,  be  there  no  officers  trow  we,  in  towne 

To  checke  idle  loytrers,2  braggyng  up  and  downe  ?  105 

Where  be  they,  by  whome  vacabunds  shoulde  be  rcprest  ? 

That  poore  sillie3  Widowes  might  live  in  peace  and  rest. 

Shall  I  never  ridde  thee  out  of  my  companie  ? 

I  will  call  for  helpe,  what  hough,  come  forth  Trupenie. 
Trupenie    [entering^  .    Anon.      What  is  your  will  mistresse  ?  dyd  ye 
call  me  ?  1 10 

C.  Custance.    Yea,  go  runne  apace,  and  as  fast  as  may  be, 

Pray  Tristram  Trusty,  my  moste  assured  frende, 

To  be  here  by  and  by,  that  he  may  me  defende. 
Trupenie.    That  message  so  quickly  shall  be  done  by  Gods  grace, 

That  at  my  returne  ye  shall  say,  I  went  apace.        Exeat.     115 
C.  Custance.    Then   shall   we   see  I  trowe,  whether  ye  shall  do  me 

harme, 
R.  Royster.    Yes  in  faith  Kitte,  I  shall  thee4  and  thine  so  charme, 

That  all  women  incarnate  by  thee  may  beware. 
C.  Custance.    Nay,  as  for  charming  me,  come  hither  if  thou  dare, 

I  shall  cloute  thee  tyll  thou  stinke,  both  thee  and  thy  traine,  I  20 

And   coyle   thee    mine   owne    handes,  and    sende   thee    home 

againe. 
R.  Royster.    Yea  sayst  thou  me  that  dame  ?   dost  thou  me  threaten  ? 

Goe  we,  I  still  see  whether  I  shall  be  beaten.  G  i 

1  C.  adds  the  rhyme  :   '  though  I  die.'  3  simple,  timid. 

2  See  Appendix  F.  *  R.  '  thous '  Custance  now  ! 


1 64  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

M.  Mery.    Nay  for  the  paishe  1  of  God,  let  me  now  treate  peace, 
For  bloudshed  will  there  be  in  case  this  strife  increace.        125 
Ah  good  dame  distance,  take  better  way  with  you. 
C.  Custance.    Let  him  do  his  worst. 

M.  Mery.     [Roister  advances  upon  Cust.,  attempts  to  strike} .    Yeld  in 

time.  [to  Cust.~\ 

R.  Royster  [is  beaten  back  by  Oust.;   retiring  to  Mery. :] .    Come  hence 

thou.  Exeant  Roister  et  Mery. 

Actus.  iiii.     Scaena.  iiii. 
CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE.      ANOT  ALYFACE.       TIBET  T.      M.    MUMBLECRUST. 

C.  Custance.    So  sirra,  if  I  should  not  with  hym  take  this  way, 
I  should  not  be  ridde  of  him  I  thinke  till  doomes  day, 
I  will  call  forth  my  folkes,  that  without  any  mockes 
If  he  come  agayne  we  may  give  him  rappes  and  knockes. 
Mage  Mumblecrust,  come  forth,  and  Tibet  Talke  apace.        5 
Yea  and  come  forth  too,  mistresse  Annot  Alyface. 

[Enter  the  maids. ] 

Annot  Aly.    I  come. 

Tibet.    And  I  am  here. 

M.  Mumb.    And  I  am  here  too  at  length. 

C.  Custance.    Like  warriers  if  nede  bee,  ye  must  shew  your  strength 
The  man  that  this  day  hath  thus  begiled  you, 
Is  Ralph  Roister  Doister,' whome  ye  know  well  inowe,2         10 
The  moste  loute  and  dastarde  that  ever  on  grounde  trode. 

Tib.   Talk.    I  see  all  folke  mocke  hym  when  he  goth  abrode. 

C.  Custance.    What  pretie  maide  ?   will  ye  talke  when  I  speake  ? 

Tib.   Talk.    No  forsooth  good  mistresse. 

C.  Custance.    Will  ye  my  tale  breake  ? 

He  threatneth  to  come  hither  with  all  his  force  to  fight,        15 
I  charge  you  if  he  come[:]on  him  with  all  your  might  [!] 

M.  Mumbl.    I  with  my  distafte  will  reache  hym  one  rappe, 

Tib.   Talk.    And   I   with   my   newe   broome   will   sweepe    hym    one 
swappe, 

1  Cf.  v.  102  'passion1  ;    'pashe,'  IV.  vii,  51  ;   IV.  viii,  52.          2  A.  reads  'mowe,'  C.  'inowe.' 


«:.  v]  Roister  Doister  165 

And   then   with    our    greate   clubbe    I    will    reache    hym    one 

rappe  [— ] 

An.  Aliface.    And  I  with  our  skimmer  will  fljng  him  one  flappe.   20 
Tib.   Talk.    Then  Trupenies  fireforke  will  him  shrewdly  fray, 

And  you  with  the  spitte  may  drive  him  quite  away. 
C.  Custance.    Go  make  all  ready,  that  it  may  be  een  so.  G  i  A 

Tib.  Talk.    For  my  parte  I  shrewe  them  that  last  about  it  go. 

Excant. 

Actus.  iiii.     Soena.  v. 

CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE.      TRUPENIE.      TRISTRAM  TRUSTY.      C.  CUSTANCE. 

C.  Custance.    Trupenie  dyd  promise  me  to  runne  a  great  pace, 

My  friend  Tristram  Trusty  to  set  into  this  place. 

Indeede  he  dwelleth  hence  a  good  stert l  I  confesse: 

But  yet  a  quicke  messanger  might  twice  since[,]  as  I  gesse, 

Have  gone  and  come  againe.      Ah  yond  I  spie  him  now.          5 
Trupeny  [enters  with  Trusty,  whom  be  leaves  behind^ .    Ye  are  a  slow 
goer  sir,  I  make  God  avow. 

My  mistresse  Custance  will  in  me  put  all  the  blame. 

Your  leggs  be  longer  than  myne  :   come  apace  for  shame. 
C.  Custance.    I  can2  thee  thanke  Trupenie,  thou  hast  done  right  wele. 
Trupeny.  Maistresse  since  I  went  no  grasse  hath  growne  on  my  hele,  I O 

But  maister  Tristram  Trustie  here  maketh  no  speede. 
C.  Custance.    That  he  came  at  all  I  thanke  him  in  very  deede, 

For  now  have  I  neede  of  the  helpe  of  some  wise  man. 
T.  Trusty.  Then  may  I  be  gone  againe,  for  none  such  I   [a]m. 
Trupenie.    Ye  may  bee  by  your  going  :   for  no  Alderman  15 

Can  goe  I  dare  say,  a  sadder  pace  than  ye  can. 
C.  Custance.    Trupenie  get  thee  in,  thou  shalt  among  them  knowe, 

How  to  use  thy  selfe,  like  a  propre  man  I  trowe. 
Trupeny.    I  go.  [•£•*"•] 

C.  Custance.    Now  Tristram  Trusty  I  thank  you  right  much. 

For  at  my  first  sending  to  come  ye  never  grutch.  20 

T.   Trusty.    Dame  Custance  God  ye  sane,  and  while  my  life  shall  last, 

For  my  friende  Goodlucks  sake  ye  shall  not  sende  in  wast. 

1  Cf.  Cotgr.,   Tressault:   A  start   .    .    .   also,  a  leap.  2  Cf.  I.  ii,  140. 


1 66  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

C.  distance.    He  shal  give  you  thanks. 

T.   Trusty.    I  will  do  much  for  his  sake  [!] 

C.  distance.    But  alack,  I  feare,  great  displeasure  shall  be  take. 

T.   Trusty.    Wherfore?  25 

C.  Custance.    For  a  foolish  matter. 

T.   Trusty.    What  is  your  cause  [:"] 

C.  Custance.    I  am  yll  accombred  with  a  couple  of  dawes.    (Y  t/c 

T.  Trusty.  Nay  weepe  not  woman :  but  tell  me  what  your  cause  is      Gil 
As  concerning  my  friende  is  any  thing  amisse  ? 

C.  Custance.    No  not  on  my  part :   but  here  was  Sym  Suresby  [ — ] 

T.   Trustie.    He  was  with  me  and  told  me  so.  30 

C.  Custance.    And  he  stoode  by 

While  Ralph  Roister  Doister  with  helpe  of  Merygreeke, 
For  promise  of  manage  dyd  unto  me  seeke.1 

T.   Trusty.    And  had  ye  made  any  promise  before  them  twaine[?] 

C.  Custance.    No  I  had  rather  be  torne  in  pieces  and  flaine, 

No  man  hath  my  faith  and  trouth,  but  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  35 
And  that  before  Suresby  dyd  I  say,  and  there  stucke, 
But  of  certaine  letters  there  were  suche  words  spoken. 

T.   Trustie.    He  tolde  me  that  too. 

C.  Custance.    And  of  a  ring  and  token. 

That  Suresby  I  spied,  dyd  more  than  halfe  suspect, 

That  I  my  faith  to  Gawyn  Goodlucke  dyd  reicct.  40 

T.   Trusty.    But    there    was    no    such     matter    dame    Custance    in 
deede  ? 

C.  Custance.    If  ever  my  head  thought  it,  God  sende  me  yll  speede. 
Wherfore  I  beseech  you,  with  me  to  be  a  witnesse, 
That  in  all  my  lyfe  I  never  intended  thing  lesse, 
And  what  a  brainsicke  foole  Ralph  Roister  Doister  is,  45 

Your  selfe  know  well  enough. 

T.   Trusty.    Ye  say  full  true  ywis. 

C.  Custance.    Bicause  to  bee  his  wife  I  ne  graunt  nor  apply,2 
Hither  will  he  com  he  sweareth  by  and  by, 
To  kill  both  me  and  myne,  and  beate  downe  my  house  flat. 
Therfore  I  pray  your  aide.  50 

T.   Trustie.    I  warrant  you  that. 

i  Cf.  II,  Hi.  17;   III.  iv,  85.  2  Think  of  it. 


sc.  vi]  Roister  Doister  \  67 

C.  Custance.    Have  I  so  many  yeres  lived  a  sobre  life, 

And  shewed  my  selfe  honest,  mayde,  widowe,  and  wyfe 

And  nowe  to  be  abused  in  such  a  vile  sorte, 

Ye  see  howe  poore  Widowes  ly  ve  all  voyde  of  comfort. 

T.   Trusty.    I  warrant  hym  do  you  no  harme  nor  wrong  at  all.       55 

C.  Custance.    No,  but  Mathew  Merygrecke  doth  me  most  appall,1 
That  he  woulde  joyne  hym  selfe  with  suche  a  wretched  loute. 

T.   Trusty.    He  doth  it  for  a  jest  I  knowe  hym  out  of  double, 
And  here  cometh  Merygreke. 

C.  Custance.    Then  shal  we  here  his  mind. 


Actus.  iiii.     Scaena.  vi.  Gii  b 

MERYGREKE.      CHRISTIAN  CUSTANCE.      TRIST.   TRUSTY. 

M.  Mery.    Custance  and  Trustie  both,  I  doe  you  here  well  finde. 
C.  Custance.    Ah  Mathew  Merygreeke,  ye  have  used  me  well. 
M.  Mery.    Nowe  for  altogether2  ye  must  your  answcre  tell. 

Will  ye  have  this  man,  woman  ?   or  else  will  ye  not  ? 

Else  will  he  come  never  bore  so  brymme  3  nor  tost  so  hot.      5 
Tris.  and  Cu.    But  why  joyn  ye  with  him. 
T.   Trusty.    For  mirth  ? 
C.  Custance.    Or  else  in  sadnesse  [?] 

M.  Mery.    The  more  fond  of  you  both  !   hardly  y04  mater  gesse  [  !  ] 
Tristram.    Lo  how  say  ye  dame  ? 
M.  Mery.    Why  do  ye  thinke  dame  Custance 

That  in  this  wowyng  I  have  ment  ought  but  pastance  ? 
C.  Custance.0    Much  things  ye  spake,  I  wote,  to  maintainc  his  do- 
tage, i  o 
M.  Mery.    But  well  might  ye  judge  I  spake  it  all  in  mockage  ? G 

For  why  ?      Is  Roister  Doister  a  fitte  husband  for  you  ? 

1  Sherwood,  To  appall  :    Esmaycr,  discourager. 

2  once  for  all. 

8  breme,  brim,  furious  5   cf.  V.   34. 

*  So  in  K.      C.  reads  correctly  'the'  ;  but  A.  has  '  yat,'  and  M.  'that.' 

5  The  names  of  the  speakers  in  vv.   10  and  I  I  are  by  mistake  in  inverse  order  in  F.. 

6  'mockage'  is  neither  Knglish  nor  French.      Palsgr.,  Cotgr.,  etc.,  do  not  have  it;  Halli 
well  quotes  it  from  "Collier's  Old  Ballads  48  ;    Harrison,  235." 


1 68  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

T.   Trusty.    I  dare  say  ye  never  thought  it. 
M.  Mery.    No  to  God  I  vow. 

And  did  not  I  knowe  afore  of  the  insurance  l 

Betweene  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  and  Christian  Custance  ?         15 

And  dyd  not  1  for  the  nonce,  by  my  conveyance,2 

Reade  his  letter  in  a  wrong  sense  for  daliance  ? 

That  if  you  coulde  have  take  it  jup  at  the  first  bounde, 

We  should  therat  such  a  sporte  and  pastime  have  founde, 

That  all  the  whole  towne  should  have  ben  the  merier.  20 

C.  Custance.    Ill  ake  your  heades  both,  I  was  never  werier, 

Nor  never  more  vexte  since  the  first  day  I  was  borne. 
T.  Trusty.    But  very  well  I  wist  he  here  did  all  in  scorne. 
C .  Custance.    But  I  feared  thereof  to  take  dishonestie. 
M.  Mery.    This  should  both  have  made  sport,  and  shewed  your 
honestie  25 

And  Goodlucke  I  dare  sweare,  your  witte  therin  would  low. 
T.   Trusty.    Yea,  being  no  worse  than  we  know  it  to  be  now. 
M.  Mery.    And  nothing  yet  to  late,  for  when  I  come  to  him, 

Hither  will  he  repaire  with  a  sheepes  looke  full  grim, 

By  plaine  force  and  violence  to  drive  you  to  yelde.     G  iii        30 
C.  Custance.    If  ye  two  bidde  me,  we  will  with  him  pitche  a  fielde, 

I  and  my  maides  together. 
M.  Mery.    Let  us  see,  be  bolde. 
C.  Custance.    Ye  shall  see  womens  warre. 
T.   Trusty.    That  fight  wil  I  behold. 
M.  Mery.    If  occasion  serve,  takyng  his  parte  full  brim, 

I  will  strike  at  you,  but  the  rappe  shall  light  on  him.  35 

When  we  first  appeare. 
C.  Custance.    Then  will  I  runne  away 

As  though  I  were  afeard. 
T.   Trusty.    Do  you  that  part  wel  play 

And  I  will  sue  for  peace. 
M.  Mery.    And  I  wil  set  him  on. 

Then  will  he  looke  as  fierce  as  a  Cotssold  lyon.3 

1  See  II.  iii,  32.  -  Cf.  the  figure  of  Crafty  Conueyaunce  in  Skclton's  Magnyfyccnce. 

8  the   '  Cotswold  lyon'  is  the  '  sheepe  '  of  v.  29;   cf.    Hey  wood,  .Pro-v.  1.  ch.  11   (78  ): 
'  as  fierce  as  a  Lion  of  Cotsolde  '  j    Tbersites  (  Dodsley  I,  403 ),  etc. 


sc.  vn]  Roister  Doister  169 

T.   Trusty.    But  when  gost  thou  for  him  ?  40 

Af.  A/fry.    That  do  I  very  novve. 
C.  distance.    Ye  shall  find  us  here. 

Af.  Aferv.    Wei  god  have  mercy  on  you.  Ex. 

T.  Trusty.    There  is  no  cause  of  feare,  the  least  boy  in  the  streete  : 
C.  Custance.    Nay,  the  least  girle  I   have,  will   make  him  take  his 
feete. 

But  hearke,  me  thinke  they  make  preparation. 

T.  Trusty.    No  force,  it  will  be  a  good  recreation.  45 

C.  Custance.    I  will  stand  within,  and  steppe  forth  speedily, 

And  so  make  as  though  I  ranne  away  dreadfully.         [Extant.] 


Actus.  iiii.     Scaena.  vii. 

R.  ROYSTER.     M.  MERYGREEKE.     C.  CUSTANCE.     D.  DOUGHTIE.     HARPAX. 

TRISTRAM  TRUSTY. 

R.  Royster.  Nowe  sirs,  keepe  your  ray,1  and  see  your  heartes  be  stoute, 
But  where  be  these  caitifes,  me  think  they  dare  not  route,2 
How  sayst  thou  Merygreeke  ?     What  doth  Kit  Custance  say  ? 

M.  Mery.    I  am  loth  to  tell  you. 

R.  Royster.    Tushe  speake  man,  yea  or  nay  ? 

Af.  Mery.    Forsooth  sir,  I  have  spoken  for  you  all  that  I  can.          5 
But  if  ye  winne  hir,  ye  must  een  play  the  man, 
Een  to  fight  it  out,  ye  must  a  mans  heart  take. 

R.  Royster.    Yes,  they  shall  know,  and3  thou   knowest   I    have  a 
stomacke. 

[M.  Mery.~\     A    stomacke   (quod   you)    yea,   as   good    as    ere   man 
had.  G  ill  b 

R.  Royster.    I  trowe  they  shall  finde  and  feele  that  I  am  a  lad.       10 

M.  Mery.    By  this  crosse  I  have  scene  you  eate  your  meate  as  well, 
As  any  that  ere  I  have  scene  of  or  heard  tell, 
A  stomacke  quod  you?   he  that  will  that  denie 
I  know  was  never  at  dynner  in  your  companie. 

1  line,  array.  3  H.  changes  •  and  '  into  'as.' 

2  Cf.  Falsg.  695  :  assemble  in  routes,  styrrc  about. 


170  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

R.  Royster.    Nay,  the  stomacke  of  a  man  it  is  that  I  meane.          15 

M.  Mery.    Nay  the  stomacke  of  a  horse  or  a  dogge  I  weene. 

R.  Royster.    Nay  a  mans  stomacke  with  a  weapon  meane  I. 

M.  Mery.    Ten    men    can    scarce    match    you    with   a   spoone    in 
a   pie. 

R.  Royster.    Nay  the  stomake  of  a  man  to  trie  in  strife. 

M.  Men.    I  never  sawe  your  stomake  cloyed  yet  in  my  lyfe.        20 

R.  Royster.    Tushe  I  meane  in  strife  or  righting  to  trie. 

M.  Mery.    We  shall  see  how  ye  will  strike  nowe  being  angry. 

R.  Royster  [strikes  M.~\ .    Have  at  thy  pate  then,  and  save  thy  head 
if  thou  may. 

M.  Mery.  [strikes  R.  again\.    Nay  then  have  at  your  pate  agayne  by 
this  day, 

R.  Royster.    Nay  thou  mayst  not  strike  at  me  againe  in  no  wise.     25 

M.  Mery.    I  can  not  in  fight  make  to  you  suche  warrantise  : 
But  as  for  your  foes  here  let  them  the  bargaine  bie.1 

R.  Royster.    Nay  as  for  they,  shall  every  mothers  childe  die. 
And  in  this  my  fume  a  little  thing  might  make  me, 
To  beate  downe  house  and  all,  and  else  the  devill  take  me.    30 

M.  Mery.    If  I  were  as  ye  be,  by  gogs  deare  mother, 
I  woulde  not  leave  one  stone  upon  an  other. 
Though  she  woulde  redeeme  it  with  twentie  thousand  poundes. 

R.  Royster.    It  shall  be  even  so,  by  his  lily  woundes. 

M.  Mery.    Bee  not  at  one  with  hir  upon  any  amendes.  35 

R.  Royster.    No  though  she  make  to  me  never  so  many  frendes. 
Nor  if  all  the  worlde  for  hir  woulde  undertake,2 
No  not  God  hymselfe  neither,  shal  not  hir  peace  make, 
On  therfore,  marche  forwarde,  —  soft,  stay  a  whyle  yet.  [  !  ] 

M.  Mery.    On.  '    40 

R.  Royster.    Tary. 

M.  Mery.    Forth. 

R.  Royster.    Back. 

M.  Mery.    On. 

R.  Royster.  Soft.      Now  forward  set.      [march  against  the  house.'] 

C.  distance  [entering :] .    What   businesse   have   we   here  ?   out   [  ! 
alas,  alas  !      [retires  for  fun  J\ 

1  Cf.  'chieve,  'low.  2  intercede. 


sc.  vii]  Roister  Doister  \  7  i 

R.  Royster.    Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha. 

Dydst  thou  see  that  Merygreeke  ?   how  afrayde  she  was  ? 

Dydst  thou  see  how  she  fledde  apace  out  of  my  sight  ?       [G  iv] 

Ah  good  sweete  distance  I  pitie  hir  by  this  light.  45 

M.  Mery.    That  tender  heart  of  yours  wyll  marre  altogether, 

Thus  will  ye  be  turned  with  waggyng  of  a  fether. 
R.  Royster.    On  sirs,  keepe  your  ray. 
M.  Mery.    On  forth,  while  this  geare  is  hot 
R.  Royster.    Soft,  the  Armes  of  Caleys,  I  have  one  thing  forgot. 
M.  Mery.    What  lacke  we  now  ?  50 

R.  Royster.    Retire,  or  else  we  be  all  slain. 

M.  Mery.    Backe     for    the     pashe    of    God,    backe    sirs,    backe 
againe. 

What  is  the  great  mater  ? 
R.  Royster.    This  hastie  forth  goyng 

Had  almost  brought  us  all  to  utter  undoing, 

It  made  me  forget  a  thing  most  necessarie. 

M.  Mery.    Well  remembered  of  a  captaine  by  sainct  Marie.          55 
R.  Royster.    It  is  a  thing  must  be  had. 
M.  Mery.    Let  us  have  it  then. 
R.  Royster.    But  I  wote  not  where  nor  how. 
M.  Mery.    Then  wote  not  I  when. 

But  what  is  it  ? 

R.  Royster.    Of  a  chiefe  thing  I  am  to  seeke. 
M.  Mery.    Tut  so  will  ye  be,  when  ye  have  studied  a  weke. 

But  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  60 

R.  Royster.    I  lacke  yet  an  hedpiece. 
M.  Mery.    The  kitchen  collocauit,1  the  best  hennes  to  grece, 

Runne,  fet  it  Dobinet,  and  come  at  once  withall, 

And  bryng  with  thee  my  potgunne,  hangyng  by  the  wall, 

[Dobinet  goes~\ 

I  have  scene  your  head  with  it  full  many  a  tyme, 

Covered  as  safe  as  it  had  bene  with  a  skrine  :  65 

1  Jocose  formation  ;  probably  a  "collock,"  a  (kitchen)  pail  (Nonb-F.ngl.  ace.  to  Halliwell). 
A  large  pail  generally  with  an  erect  handle  in  Yorks,  Lancash.,  etc.  (Wright,  I)i,i/.  Dice.). 
Cf.  Hey  wood,  I'ro-v.  2,  ch.  7,  "give  you  a  rccumbentibut."  If  this  fine  Latin  ending  was  a 
school-joke  it  would  be  of  chronological  importance. 


172  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 

And  I  warrant  it  save  your  head  from  any  stroke, 

Except  perchaunce  to  be  amased  1  with  the  smoke  : 

I  warrant  your  head  therwith,  except  for  the  mist, 

As  safe  as  if  it  were  fast  locked  up  in  a  chist :         \_Dob.  enters'] 

And  loe  here  our  Dobinet  commeth  with  it  nowe.  70 

D.  Dough.    I  will  cover  me  to  the  shoulders  well  inow. 

M.  Mery.    Let  me  see  it  on. 

R.  Royster.    In  fayth  it  doth  metely  well. 

M.  Mery.    There  can  be  no  fitter  thing.      Now  ye  must  us  tell 
What  to  do. 

R.  Royster.    Now  forth  in  ray  sirs,  and  stoppe  no  more.  73 

M.  Mery.    Now  sainct  George  to  borow,2  Drum  dubbe  a  dubbe  afore. 

T.  Trusty.  \_entering\ .    What  meane  you  to  do  sir,  committe  man- 
slaughter. 

R.  Royster.    To  kyll  fortie  such,  is  a  matter  of  laughter. 

T.   Trusty.    And  who  is  it  sir,  whome  ye  intende  thus  to  spill  ?      G  iv  b 

R.  Royster.    Foolishe  Custance  here  forceth  me  against  my  will. 

T.  Trusty.    And  is  there  no  meane  your  extreme  wrath  to  slake.    80 
She  shall  some  amendes  unto  your  good  mashyp  make. 

R.  Royster.    I  will  none  amendes. 

T.  Trusty.    Is  hir  offence  so  sore  ? 

M.  Mery.    And  he  were  a  loute  she  coulde  have  done  no  more. 
She  hath  calde  him  foole,  and  dressed  him  like  a  foole. 
Mocked  him  lyke  ?.  foole,  used  him  like  a  foole.  85 

T.   Trusty.    Well  yet  the  Sheriffe,  the  Justice,  or  Constable, 
Hir  misdemeanour  to  punishe  might  be  able. 

R.  Royster.    No  sir,  I  mine  owne  selfe  will  in  this  present  cause, 
Be  Sheriffe,  and  Justice,  and  whole  Judge  of  the  lawes, 
This  matter  to  amende,  all  officers  be  I  shall,  90 

Constable,  Bailiffe,  Sergeant. 

M.  Mery.    And  hangman  and  all. 

T.   Trusty.    Yet  a  noble  courage,  and  the  hearte  of  a  man 
Should  more  honour  winne  by  bearyng  with  a  woman. 
Therfore  take  the  lawe,  and  lette  hir  aunswere  thereto. 

R.  Royster.    Merygreeke,  the  best  way  were  even  so  to  do.  95 

1  Stupefied  ;   cf.   Pslsgr.  p.  421. 

2  for  security  j   see  Robyn  Hotir,  st.   63  ;    Cock  Lords  Bate,  etc. 


sc.  vn]  Roister  Doister  173 

What  honour  should  it  be  with  a  woman  to  fight  ? 
M.  Mery.    And    what    then,    will    ye    thus    forgo    and    lese    your 

right  ? 

R.  Royster.    Nay,  I  will  take  the  lawe  on  hir  withouten  grace. 
T.  Trusty.    Or  yf  vour  mashyp  coulde  pardon  this  one  trespace. 

I  pray  you  forgive  hir.  100 

R.  Royster.  'Hoh^, 
M.  Mery.    Tushe  tushe  sir  do  not. 

Be  good  maister  to  hir. 
R.  Royster.    Hoh  ? 
M.  Mery.    Tush  I  say  do  not. 

And  what  shall  your  people  here  returne  streight  home  ? 
-   T.  Trustie.    Yea,  levie  the  campe  sirs,  and  hence  againe  eche  one,1 
R.  Royster.    But  be  still  in  readinesse  if  I  happe  to  call, 

I  can  not  tell  what  sodaine  chaunce  may  befall.  105 

M.  Mery.    Do  not  off  your  harncsse  sirs  I  you  advise, 

At  the  least  for  this  fortnight  in  no  maner  wise, 

Perchaunce  in  an  houre  when  all  ye  thinke  least, 

Our  maisters  appetite  to  fight  will  be  best. 

But  soft,  ere  ye  go,  have  once  at  Custance  house.  1 10 

R.  Royster.    Soft,  what  wilt  thou  do  ? 
M.  Mery.    Once  discharge  my  harquebouse 

And  for  my  heartes  ease,  have  once  more  with  my  potgoon.       H  i 
R.  Royster.    Holde  thy  handes  else  is  all  our  purpose  cleane  fordoone. 
M.  Mery.    And  it  cost  me  my  life. 
R.  Royster.    I  say  thou  shalt  not. 

M.  Mery  [making  a  mock  assault].    By  the  matte2 but  I  will.      Have 
once  more  with  haile  shot.  i  i  5 

I  will  have  some  penyworth,  I  will  not  leesc  all. 

1  T.  in  addressing  the  '  Miles  '  goes  on  with  his  military  jargon.      In  E.  this  line  is  assigned 
to  Rovfter,  and  the  next  two  lines  from  '  But '  to  '  befall '  to  T.  Trustie. 

2  By  the  mass  ! 


1 74  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  mi 


Actus.  iiii.     Scaena.  viii.1 
M.  MERYGREEKE.      C.  CUSTANCE.      R.  ROISTER.      TIB.  T.      AN.  ALYFACE. 

M.     MUMBLECRUST.          TRUPENIE.          DoBINET    DoUGHTIE.          HARPAX.          Two 

drummes  with  their  Ensignes, 

C.  Custance.    What  caitifes  are  those  that  so  shake  my  house  wall  ? 
M.  Mery  [with  a  sly  wink] .    Ah  sirrha  [!]  now  Custance  if  ye  had 
so  muche  wit 

I  woulde  see  you  aske  pardon,  and  your  selves  submit. 
C.  Custance.  Have  I  still  this  adoe  with  a  couple  of  fooles  ? 
M.  Mery.  Here  ye  what  she  saith  ?  5 

C.  Custance.    Maidens  come  forth  with  your  tooles. 
R.  Royster.    In  a  ray. 
M.  Mery.    Dubba  dub  sirrha. 
R.  Royster.    In  a  ray. 

They  come  sodainly  on  us. 
M.  Mery.    Dubbadub. 
R.  Royster.    In  a  ray. 

That  ever  I  was  borne,  we  are  taken  tardie. 
M.  Mery.    Now  'sirs,  quite  our  selves  like  tall  men  and  hardie. 
C.  Custance.    On  afore  Trupenie,  holde  thyne  owne  Annot,  10 

On  towarde  them  Tibet,  for  scape  us  they  can  not. 

Come  forth  Madge  Mumblecrust,  so  stande  fast  togither. 
M.  Mery.    God  sende  us  a  faire  day. 
R.  Royster.    See  they  marche  on  hither. 
Tib.   Talk.    But  mistresse. 
C.  Custance.    What  sayst  [thlou  ?  2 
Tib.    Shall  I  go  fet  our  goose  ?  3 

C.  Custance.    What  to  do  ?  15 

Tib.  To  yonder  Captain  I  will  turne  hir  loose 

And  she  gape  and  hisse  at  him,  as  she  doth  at  me, 

I  durst  jeoparde  my  hande  she  wyll  make  him  flee. 

1  IV.  viii,  Cf.  Plaut.  Miles,  v.  1394  set/.  -  E.  has  'you.' 

3  the  'goose'  would  produce  the  same  erlect  as  the  'snail  '  in   Tbersites. 


sc.  vm]  Roister  Doister  175 

C.  Custance.    On  forward. 

R.  Royster.    They  com. 

M.  Mery.    Stand.  [They  fight i   M.  hitting  R. 

R.  Royster.     Hold. 

M.  Mery.    Kepe. 

R.  Royster.    There. 

M.  Mery.    Strike. 

R.  Royster.    Take  heede. 

C.  Custance.    Wei  sayd  Truepeny. 

Trupeny.    Ah  whoorcsons. 

C.  Custance.    Wei  don  in  deede 

M.  Mery.    Hold  thine  owne  Harpax,  downe  with  them  Dobinet.     20 

H  i    b 

C.  Custance.    Now  Madge,  there  Annot :   now  sticke  them  Tibet. 
Tib.  Talk,  [against  Dob.].    All  my  chiefc  quarell  is  to  this  same  little 

knave, 
That  begyled  me  last  day,  nothyng  shall  him  save. 

D.  Dough.    Downe  with  this  litle  queane,  that  hath  at  me  such  spite, 

Save  you  from  hir  maister,  it  is  a  very  sprite.  25 

C.  Custance.    I  my  selfe  will  mounsire  graunde '  captaine  undertake, 

r  advances  against  Roister.! 
R.  Royster.  They  win  grounde. 
M.  Mery.    Save  your  selfe  sir,  for  gods  sake. 
R.  Royster  [retiring,  beaten] .    Out,  alas,  I  am  slaine,  helpe. 
M.  Mery.    Save  your  selfe. 
R.  Royster.    Alas. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  then,  have  at  you  mistresse. 

[pretending  to  strike  Cast.,  be  hits  Roist. ] 
R.  Royster.    Thou  hittest  me,  alas. 

M.  Mery.    I  wil  strike  at  Custance  here.  [again  bitting  R.]      30 

R.  Royster.    Thou  hittest  me. 
M.  Mery.   [aside] .    So  I  wil. 

Nay  mistresse  Custance. 
R.  Royster.    Alas,  thou  hittest  me  still.   • 

Hold. 

1  Heywood,  Pro-v.  i,  ch.   5  (21)  :   "thus  be  I   by  this  once  le  senior  dt  graunde,  \  many 
that  commaund  me,  I  shall  conimaundc." 


176  Roister  Doister       [ACT.  mi.  sc.  v] 

M.  Mery.    Save  your  self  sir. 
R.  Royster.    Help,1  out  alas  I  am  slain 

M.  Mery.    Truce,  hold   your  hands,  truce   for  a   pissing  while  or 
twaine  : 

Nay  how  say  you  Custance,  for  saving  of  your  life, 

Will  ye  yelde  and  graunt  to  be  this  gentmans  wife  ?  35 

C.  Custance.    Ye  tolde  me  he  loved  me,  call  ye  this  love  ? 
M.  Mery.  He  loved  a  while  even  like  a  turtle  dove. 
C.  Custance.    Gay    love    God    save    it,    so    soone    hotte,  so   soone 

colde,2 

M.  Mery.    I  am  sory  for  you  :   he  could  love  you  yet  so  he  coulde. 
R.  Royster.    Nay  by  cocks  precious3  she  shall  be  none  of  mine.    40 
M.  Mery.    Why  so  ? 
R.  Royster.    Come  away,  by  the  matte  she  is  mankine.* 

I  durst  adventure  the  losse  of  my  right  hande, 

If  shee  dyd  not  slee  hir  other  husbande  : 

And  see  if  she  prepare  not  againe  to  fight. 

M.    Mery.     What    then  ?    sainct    George    to   borow,   our     Ladies 
knight.5  45 

R.  Royster.    Slee  else  whom  she  will,  by  gog  she  shall  not  slee  mee. 
M.  Mery.    How  then  ? 

R.  Royster.    Rather  than  to  be  slaine,  I  will  flee. 
C.  Custance.    Too  it  againe,  my  knightesses,  downe  with  them  all. 
R.  Royster.    Away,  away,  away,  she  will  else  kyll  us  all. 
M.  Mery.    Nay  sticke  to  it,  like  an  hardie  man  and  a  tall.  50 

R.   Royster.    Oh    bones,6  thou    hittest   me.      Away,  or  else  die  we 

shall. 

M.  Mery.    Away  for  the  pashe  of  our  sweete  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 
C.  Custance.    Away  loute  and  lubber,  or  I  shall  be  thy  priest. 

Exeant  [Royster  and  bis  '  armyS~\1 

So  this  fielde  is  ours  we  have  driven  them  all  away.  H  ii 

Tib  Talk.    Thankes  to  God  mistresse,  ye  have  had  a  faire  day.     55 

1  Cf.  Mil.  G/or.  1406. 

2  Heywood's  Pro-v.  -i,  ch.  8;   it.' l,  ch.  2;   Camden,   Prov.  270;   Ray,  etc. 
8  See  the  complete  oath,  III.  iv,  127. 

*  masculine,  furious. 

5  See  Child's  Ballads,  Index ;    Fliigel's  Lesebucb,  440. 

6  Gog's  bones,  G.  G.  N.  passim.  7  E.  has  the  stage  direction  :   Exeant  om. 


[ACT.  v.  sc.  i]         Roister  Doister  177 

C.   Custance.    Well  nowe  goc  ye  in,  and  make  your  selfe  some  good 

cheere. 

Omnes  pariter.    We  goe  [!  —  Excant  distance's  maidens], 
T.   Trust.    Ah  sir,  what  a  field  we  have  had  heere. 
C.  Custtince.    Friend  Tristram,  I  pray  you  be  a  witnesse  with  me. 
T.  Trusty.    Dame  distance,  I  shall  depose  for  your  honest ie, 

And  nowe  fare  ye  well,  except  some  thing  else  ye  wolde.       6c 
C.  Custance.    Not    now,    but    when    I    nede    to    sende    I    will    be 

bolde. 
I  thanke  you  for  these  paines.      [Exeat  Trusty}-]      And  now  I 

wyll  get  me  in, 
Now  Roister  Doister  will  no  more  wowyng  begin.       Ex.      63 


Actus.  v.     Scaena.    i. 
GAWYN  GOODLUCKE.      SYM  SURESBY. 

Sym  Suresby  my  trustie  man,  nowe  advise  thee  well, 
And  see  that  no  false  surmises  thou  me  tell, 
Was  there  such  adoe  about  Custance  of  a  truth  ? 

Sim.  Sure.    To  reporte  that  I  hearde  and  sawc,  to  me  is  ruth, 

But  both  my  duetie  and  name  and  propretie,2  5 

Warneth  me  to  you  to  shewe  fidelitie, 

It  may  be  well  enough,  and  I  wyshe  it  so  to  be, 

She  may  hir  selfe  discharge  and  trie3  hir  honcstie, 

Yet  their  clayme  to  hir  me  thought  was  very  large, 

For  with  letters  rings4  and  tokens,  they  dyd  hir  charge.          ic 

Which  when  I  hearde  and  sawe  I  would  none  to  you  bring. 

G.  Goodl.    No,  by  sainct  Marie,  I  allowe  thce  in  that  thing. 
Ah  sirra,  nowe  I  see  truthe  in  the  proverbe  olde, 
All  things  that  shineth  is  not  by  and  by  "'  pure  golde, 
If  any  doe  ly  vc  a  woman  of  honestie,6  i  5 

I  would  have  sworne  Christian  distance  had  bene  shce.6 

1  The  Exeat  in  E.  stands  at  the  end  of  61.  4  Cf.  Flaut.  Miles,  v.  <)$j  ( IV.  i,  i  i ). 

2  natural  disposition.  6  straightway,  therefore. 

3  make  proof  of;    cf.  Palsgr.  p.  762.  B  Note  the  rhyme. 


178  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  v 

Sim  Sure.    Sir,  though  I  to  you  be  a  servant  true  and  just. 

Yet  doe  not  ye  therfore  your  faithfull  spouse  mystrust. 

But  examine  the  matter,  and  if  ye  shall  it  finde,  H  H  /> 

To  be  all  well,  be  not  ye  for  my  wordes  unkinde.  20 

G.  Goodl.    I  shall  do  that  is  right,  and  as  I  see  cause  why. 

But  here  commeth  Custance  forth,  we  shal  know  by  and  by. 


Actus.  v.     Scaena.  ii. 
C.  CUSTANCE.      GAWYN  GOODLUCKE.      SYM  SURESBY. 

C.  Custance.    I  come  forth  to  see  and  hearken  for  newes  good, 
For  about  this  houre  is  the  tyme  of  likelyhood, 
That  Gawyn  Goodlucke  by  the  sayings  of  Suresby, 
Would  be  at  home,  and  lo  yond  I  see  hym  I. 
What  Gawyn  Goodlucke,  the  onely  hope  of  my  life,  5 

Welcome  home,  and  kysse  me  your  true  espoused  wife. 

Ga.  Good.    Nay  soft  dame  Custance,  I  must  first  by  your  licence, 
See  whether  all  things  be  cleere  in  your  conscience, 
I  heare  of  your  doings  to  me  very  straunge. 

C.  Custance.    What   feare  ye  ?   that   my  faith  towardes  you  should 
chaunge  ?  10 

Ga.  Good.    I  must  needes  mistrust  ye  be  elsewhere  entangled. 
For  I  heare  that  certaine  men  with  you  have  wrangled 

j  O 

About  the  promise  of  manage  by  you  to  them  made. 
C.  Custance.    Coulde  any  mans  reporte  your  minde  therein  persuade  ? 
Ga.  Good.     Well,    ye    must    therin    declare    your    selfe    to    stande 
cleere,  i 5 

Else  I  and  you  dame  Custance  may  not  joyne  this  yere. 
C.  Custance.    Then    woulde    I    were    dead,   and    faire   layd   in    my 
^  grave, 

Ah  Suresby,  is  this  the  honestie  that  ye  have  ? 

To  hurt  me  with  your  report,  not  knowyng  the  thing. 
Sim  Sure.    If  ye  be  honest  my  wordes  can  hurte  you  nothing.        20 

But  what  I  hcardc  and  sawe,  I  might  not  but  report. 
C.  Custance.    Ah  Lorde,  helpe  poore  widowes,  destitute  of  comfort. 


sc.  in]  Roister  Doister 


179 


Truly  most  deare  spouse,  nought  was  done  but  for  pastance. 
G.  Good.    But  such  kynde  of  spotting  is  homely  l  daliance. 
C.  Custance.    If  ye  knewe   the   truthe,  ye  would   take   all   in  good 
parte.  H  iii       25 

Ga.  Good.    By  your  leave  I  am  not  halfe  well  skilled  in  that  arte. 
C.  Custance.    It  was  none  but  Roister  Doister  that  foolishe  momc.2 
Ga.  Good.     Yea  Custance,  better  (they   say)   a  badde  scusc3  than 

none.2 

C.  Custance.    Why   Tristram   Trustie    sir,  your   true    and    faithfull 
frende, 

Was  privie  bothe  to  the  beginning  and  the  ende.  30 

Let  him  be  the  Judge,  and  for  me  testifie. 
Ga.  Good.    I  will  the  more  credite  that  he  shall  verifie, 

And  bicause  I  will  the  truthe  know  een  as  it  is, 

I  will  to  him  my  selfe,  and  know  all  without  misse. 

Come  on  Sym  Suresby,  that  before  my  friend  thou  may         35 

Avouch  the  same  wordes,  which  thou  dydst  to  me  say.       Exeant. 

Actus.  v.     Scasna.  iii. 

CHRISTIAN   CUSTANCE. 

C.  Custance.    O  Lorde,  howe  necessarie  it  is  nowe  of  dayes, 
That  eche  bodie  live  uprightly  all  maner  waves, 
For  lette  never  so  little  a  gappe  be  open, 
And  be  sure  of  this,  the  worst  shall  be  spoken  [.] 
Howe  innocent  stande  I  in  this  for  deede  or  thought,4  5 

And  yet  see  what  mistrust  towardes  me  it  hath  wrought  [.] 
But  thou  Lorde  knowest  all  folkes  thoughts  and  eke  intents 
And  thou  arte  the  deliverer  of  all  innocentes. 
Thou  didst  helpe  the  advoutresse  5  that  she  might  be  amended, 
Much  more  then  helpe  Lorde,  that  never  yll  intended.  10 

Thou  didst  helpe  Susanna^  wrongfully  accused, 
And  no  lesse  dost  thou  see  Lorde,  how  I  am  now  abused, 

1  Cf.  Sherwood,  s.  v. :   .    .    'rude,'  'simple,'  '  vil,'  etc. 

2  Note  the  rhyme.  4  H.  and  A.  have  an  interrogation  mark, 
8  Cf.  stablishc,  etc.                                                     6  Adulteress. 


180  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  v 

Thou  didst  helpe  Hester,  when  she  should  have  died, 

Helpe  also  good  Lorde,  that  my  truth  may  be  tried. 

Yet  if  Gawin  Goodlucke  with  Tristram  Trusty  speake.         15 

I  trust  of  yll  report  the  force  shall  be  but  weake, 

And  loe  yond  they  come  sadly  talking  togither,  H  Hi  b 

I  wyll  abyde,  and  not  shrinke  for  their  comming  hither. 


Actus.  v.     Scaena.  iiii. 
GAWYN  GOODLUCKE.      TRISTRAM  TRUSTIE.      C.   CUSTANCE.      SYM  SURESBY. 

Ga.  Good.    And  was  it  none  other  than  ye  to  me  reporte  ? 

Tristram.      No,  and  here  were  [yat]  wished  [ye]  to  have  scene  the 
sporte.1 

Ga.  Good.    Woulde  I  had,  rather  than  halfe  of  that  in  my  purse. 

Sim  Sure.    And  I  doe  muche  rejoyce  the  matter  was  no  wurse, 

And  like  as  to  open  it,  I  was  to  you  faithfull,  5 

So  of  dame  Custance  honest  truth  I  am  joyfull. 

For  God  forfende  that  I  shoulde  hurt  hir  by  false  reporte. 

Ga.  Good.    Well,  I  will  no  longer  holde  hir  in  discomforte. 

C.  Custance.    Nowe  come  they  hitherwarde,  I  trust  all  shall  be  well. 

Ga.  Good.  Sweete  Custance  neither   heart  can    thinkc    nor  tongue 
tell,  10 

Howe  much  I  joy  in  your  constant  fidelitie, 
Come  nowe  kisse  me  the2  pearle  of  perfect  honestie. 

C.  Custance.    God  lette  me  no  longer  to  continue  in  lyfe, 
Than  I  shall  towardes  you  continue  a  true  wyfe. 

Ga.  Goodl.   Well  now  to  make  you  for  this  some  parte  of  amendes,  I  5 
I  shall  desire  first  you,  and  then  suche  of  our  frendes, 
As  shall  to  you  seeme  best,  to  suppe  at  home  with  me, 
Where  at  your  fought  fielde  we  shall  laugh  and  mery  be. 

Sim  Sure.    And  mistresse  I  beseech  you,  take  with  me  no  greefe, 

I  did  a  true  mans  part,  not  wishvng  you  repreefe.3  20 

C.  Custance.    Though  hastie  reportes  through  surmises  growyng, 
May  of  poore  innocentes  be  utter  overthrowyng, 

1  E.,  '  here  were  ye  wished  to  haue.'  2  Norn. -vocative  ;   cf.  V.  vi,  37.  8  reproach. 


sc.  v]  Roister  Doister  \  8 1 

Yet  bicause  to  thy  maister  thou  hast  a  true  hart, 

And  I  know  mine  owne  truth,  I  forgive  thee  for  my  part. 
Ga.  Goodl.    Go  we  all  to  my  house,  and  of  this  gcare  no  more.      25 

Goe  prepare  all  things  Sym  Suresby,  hence,  runne  afore.     H  i\ 
Sim  Sure.    I  goe.  Ex. 

G.  Good.    But  who  commeth  yond,  M.  iMerygreeke  ? 
C.  Custance.    Roister  Doisters  champion,  I  shrewe  his  best  cheeke.1 
T.   Trusty.    Roister  Doister  selfe2  your  wower  is  with  hym  too. 

Surely  some  thing  there  is  with  us  they  have  to  doe.  30 


Actus.  v.     Scaena.  v.;? 

M.  MERYGREEKE.      RALPH   ROISTER.      GAWYN  GOODLUCKE. 
TRISTRAM  TRUSTIE.      C.  CUSTANCE. 

M.  Mery.    Yond   I    see  Gawyn   Goodlucke,   to   whome    lyeth    my 
message, 

I  will  first  salute  hirp  after  his  long  voyage, 

And  then  make  all  thing  well  concerning  your  behalfe. 
R.  Royster.    Yea  for  the  pashe  of  God. 
M.  Mery.    Hence  out  of  sight  ye  calfe, 

Till  I  have  spoke  with  them,  and  then  I  will  you  fet[ — ]       5 
R.  Royster.    In  Gods  name. 
M.  Mery.    What  Master  Gawin  Goodluck  wel  met 

And  from  your  long  voyage  I  bid  you  right  welcome  home. 
Ga.  Good.    I  thanke  you. 

M.  Mery.    I  come  to  you  from  an  honest  mome. 
Ga.  Good.    Who  is  that  ? 

M.  Men*.    Roister  Doister  that  doughtie  kite. 

C.  Custance.    Fye>  I  can  scarce  abide  ye  shoulde  his  name  recite.  10 
M.  Mery.    Ye  must  take  him  to  favour,  and  pardon  all  past, 

He  heareth  of  your  returne,  and  is  full  yll  agast. 
Ga.  Good.    I  am  ryght  well  content  he  have  with  us  some  cherc. 
C.  Custance.    Fyc  upon  hym  beast,  then  wyll  not  I  be  there. 

1  See  IV.  ii,   14.  8  Cf.  last  scene  of  Ter.  Eunucbu!. 

2  Cf.   Koch's  Hist.   Gram,  l  :    324. 


1 8  2  Roister  Doister  [ACT.  v 

Ga.  Good.   Why  Custance  do  ye  hate  hym  more  than  ye  love  me  ?  15 
C.  Custance.    But  for  your  mynde  1  sir,  where  he  were  would  I  not 

be[.]* 

T.  Trusty.    He  woulde  make  us  al  laugh. 
M.  Mery.    Ye  nere  had  better  sport. 

Ga.  Good.    I  pray  you  sweete  Custance,  let  him  to  us  resort. 
C.  Custance.    To  your  will  I  assent. 
M.  Mery.    Why,  suche  a  foole  it  is,3 

As  no  man  for  good  pastime  would  forgoe  or  misse.  20 

G.  Goodl.    Fet  him  to  go  wyth  us. 

M.  Mery.    He  will  be  a  glad  man.  Ex. 

T.  Trusty.    We    must    to    make    us     mirth,4    maintaine5    hym    all 
we    can. 

And  loe  yond  he  commeth  and  iMerygreeke  with  him.          H  iv  b 
C.  Custance.    At  his  first  entrance  ye  shall  see  I  wyll  him  trim. 

But  first  let  us  hearken  the  gentlemans  wise  talke.  25 

T.  Trusty.    I  pray  you  marke  if  ever  ye  sawe  crane  so  stalke. 

Actus.  v.     Scaena.  vi. 

R.  ROISTER.      M.  MERYGREEKE.      C.  CUSTANCE.      G.  GOODLUCKE. 
T.  TRUSTIE.      D.  DOUGHTIE.      HARPAX. 

R.  Royster.    May  I  then  be  bolde  ? 

M.  Mery.    I  warrant  you  on  my  worde, 

They  say  they  shall  be  sicke,  but  ye  be  at  theyr  borde. 

R.  Royster.    Thei  wer  not  angry  then  [?] 

M.  Mery.    Yes  at  first,  and  made  strange 

But  when  I  sayd  your  anger  to  favour  shoulde  change, 
And  therewith  had  commended  you  accordingly,  5 

They  were  all  in  love  with  your  mashyp  by  and  by. 
And  cried  you  mercy  that  they  had  done  you  wrong. 

R.  Royster.    For  why,  no  man,  woman,  nor  childe  can  hate  me  long.6 

1  "  Unless  you  desire  it."  2  E.  has  interrogation  mark. 

3  Cf.  Eunuch.  V.  viii,  49 :    Fatuus  csty  insu/sus,  bardus. 

*  Cf.  ib.  V.  viii,   57;    Hunc  comcdendum  et  deridendum  -vobis  propino. 

6  E.,  '  maintaiue.' 

6  Cf.   Eunuch.  V.  viii,  62:    Numjuam  etiam  fui  usjuam,  juin  me  omncs  amarint  plurimum. 


sc.  vi]  Roister  Doister  \  8  3 

M.  Men\    We  feare  (quod  they)  he  will  be  avenged  one  day, 

Then  for  a  peny  give  all  our  lives  we  may.  10 

R.  Royster.    Sayd  they  so  in  deede[?] 
M.  Mery,    Did  they  ?  yea,  even  with  one  voice 

He  will  forgive  all  i^quod  I)  Oh  how  they  did  rejoyce. 
R.  Royster.    Ha,  ha,  ha.  13 

M.  Mery.    Goe  fette  hym  (say  they)  while  he  is  in  good  moode, 

For  have  his  anger  who  lust,  we  will  not  by  the  Roode.         15 
R.  Royster.    I  pray  God  that  it  be  all  true,  that  thou  hast  me  tolde, 

And  that  she  fight  no  more. 
M.  Mery.    I  warrant  you,  be  bolde 

Too  them,  and  salute  them.  \advance  towards  Good!.,  etc.~\ 

R.  Royster.    Sirs,  I  greete  you  all  well. 
Omnes.    Your  maistership  is  welcom. 
C.  Custance.    Savyng  my  quarcll. 

For  sure  I  will  put  you  up  into  the  Eschequer.1  2O 

M.  Mery.    Why  so  ?   better  nay  :   Whcrfore  ? 
C.  Custance.    For  an  usurer.2 

R.  Royster.    I  am  no  usurer  good  mistresse  by  his  armes. 
M.  Men.    When  tooke  he  gaine  of  money  to  any  mans  harmes  ? 
.C.  Custance.  Yes,  a  fowle  usurer  he  is,  ye  shall  see  els[ — ]  I  i 

R.  Royster  \aside  to  M^\     Didst  not  thou   promise  she  would   picke 
no  mo  quarels  ?  25 

C.  Custance.    He  will  lende  no  blowes,  but  he  have  in  recompence 

Fiftene  for  one,2  whiche  is  to  muche  of  conscience. 
R.  Royster.    Ah  dame,  by  the  auncient  lawe  of  armes,  a  man 

Hath  no  honour  to  foile  his  handes  on  a  woman. 
C.  Custance.    And  where  other  usurers3  take  their  gaines  yerely,  30 

This  man  is  angry  but  he  have  his  by  and  by. 
Ga.  Gwfll.    Sir,  doe  not  for  hir  sake  beare  me  your  displeasure. 
M.  Mcrv.    Well,  he  shall  with  you  talke  therof  more  at  leasure. 

Upon  your  good  usage,  he  will  now  shake  your  hande. 
R.  Royster.    And  much  heartily  welcome  from  a  straunge  lande.  35 

1  Cf.  Pollock-.YIaitland,  lint.  Engl.  La-w,  I,  171  :  "The  Kxchequer  is  called  a  curia  .    .    . 
it  receives  and  audits  the  accounts  of  the  sheriffs  and  other  collectors  ;    it  calls  the  King1* 
debtors  before  it,"  etc. 

2  Cf.  Wright's  Songs,  76. 

8  See  Introd.,  Date  'if  the  Play. 


1  84  Roister  Doister        [ACT.  v.  sc.  vi] 

M.  Mery.  Be  not  afearde  Gawyn  to  let  him  shake  your  fyst. 
Ga.  Goodl.    Oh  the  moste  honeste  gentleman  that  ere  I  wist. 

I  beseeche  your  mashyp  to  take  payne  to  suppe  with  us. 
M.  Mery.    He  shall  not  say  you  nay  and  I  too,  by  Jesus. 

Bicause  ye  shall  be  friends,  and  let  all  quarels  passe.  40 

R.    Royster.    I  wyll  be  as  good  friends  with  them  as  ere  I  was. 
M.  Mery.    Then  let  me  fet  your  quier  that  we  may  have  a  song. 
R.  Royster.    Goe. 

G.  Goodluck.    I  have  hearde  no  melodic  all  this  yeare  long. 
M.  Mery  \to  the  musicians  whom  be  has  called  /'«]  .  Come  on  sirs  quickly. 
R.  Royster.    Sing  on  sirs,  for  my  frends  sake. 

D.  Dough.    Cal  ye  these  your  frends  ?  45 

R.  Royster.    Sing  on,  and  no  mo  words  make. 

Here  they  sing* 

6  r.      f.  .•  of  •  A 

Ga.  Good.    The  Lord  preserve  our  most  noble  Queene  of  renowne, 

And  hir  virtues  rewarde  with  the  heavenly  crowne. 
C.  distance.    The  Lorde  strengthen  hir  most  excellent  Majestic, 

Long  to  reigne  over  us  in  all  prosperitie. 
T.  Trustv.    That  hir  godly  proceedings  the  faith  to  defende,2         50 

He  may  stablishe  and  maintaine  through  to  the  ende. 
M.  Mery.    God  graunt  hir  as  she  doth,  the  Gospell  to  protect,3 

Learning  and  vertue  to  advaunce,  and  vice  to  correct.4 
R.  Royster.  God  graunt  hir  lovyng  subjects  both  the  minde  and  grace, 

Hir  most  godly  procedyngs  worthily  to  imbrace.  I  i   b    55 

Harpax.    Hir  highnesse  most  worthy  counsellers  5  God  prosper, 

With  honour  and  love  of  all  men  to  minister. 
Omnes.    God  graunt  the  nobilitie  6  hir  to  serve  and  love, 

With  all  the  whole  commontie  as  doth  them  behove.  59 

AMEN. 

1  See  Appendix  G. 

2  The  title,  '  Fidei  Dffensor,'  was  given  to   Henry  VIII.  in  1521  5   the  title,  Defender  of 
the  Faith,  is  found  in  the  statutes  of  Mary  and  Elizabeth  ;    Defenders  of  the  Faith   in  those  of 
Philip  and  Mary. 

8  Sim  larly  in  the  Prater  at  the  end  of  Cambyses. 

larly  in  the  Prayer  at  the  end  of  Like  TO///  to  Like. 

larly  in   the   plays  of  "Jacob  and  Esau,  Disob.   Child,  Neiv   Custom,   Cambists,  Like 

kc. 

larly  in  the  Prayers  of  Nice  Wanton,  Dis'/b.  Child,  Applus,  Like  TO///  to  Like,  TV/a// 


4  Si 


5  Sim 
ill  to  L 
fi  Sim 
Trcas.   [all  estates]. 


Roister  Doister  185 

Certainc   Songs   to    be   song   by 

those  which  shall  use  this  Comedie  or  interlude 

THE    SECONUE    SONG1 

Who  so  to  marry  a  minion  Wyfe, 
Hath  haddc  good  chauncc  and  happe, 
Must  love  hir  and  chcrishc  hir  all  his  life, 
And  dandle  hir  in  his  lappe.  4 

If  she  will  fare  well,  yf  she  vvyll  go  gay, 
A  good  husbandc  ever  styll, 
What  ever  she  lust  to  doe,  or  to  say, 
Must  lette  hir  have  hir  owne  will.  8 

About  what  affaires  so  ever  he  goe, 
He  must  shewe  hir  all  his  mynde, 
None  of  hys  counsell  she  may  be  kept  fr[o]e,2 
Else  is  he  a  man  unkvnde.  12 


THE    FOURTH    SONG.3 

I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday 
I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday, 

Who  soever  shall  come  that  way,  [in] 

I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday.  4 

Royster  Doyster  is  my  name, 
Royster  Doyster  is  my  name, 
A  lustie  brute4  I  am  the  same, 
I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday.  8 

Christian  distance  have  I  founde, 
Christian  distance  have  I  founde, 
A  Wydowe  worthe  a  thousande  pounde, 
I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday.  I  2 

1  Seel.iv,  112.       2  A.  (and  E.  '.];  'free.'        3  To  be  inserted  III.  iii,  151.       4  Ct~.  Ill.iii,  120. 


1 86  Roister  Doister 

distance  is  as  sweete  as  honey, 
distance  is  as  sweete  as  honey, 
I  hir  lambe  and  she  my  coney, 
I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday.  16 

When  we  shall  make  our  weddyng  feast, 
When  we  shall  make  our  weddyng  feast, 
There  shall  bee  cheere  for  man  and  beast, 
I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday.  20 

I  mun  be  maried  a  Sunday,  etc. 


The    Psalmodie.1 

Placebo  dilex'i, 

Maister  Roister  Doister  wil  streight  go  home  and  die, 
Our  Lorde  Jesus  Christ  his  soule  have  mercie  upon.* 
Thus  you  see  to  day  a  man,  to  morow2  John.3 

Yet  saving  for  a  womans  extreeme  crueltie,  5 

He  might  have  lyved  yet  a  moneth  or  two  or  three, 
But  in  spite  of  Custance  which  hath  him  weried,  I  ii.  b 

His  mashyp  shall  be  worshipfullv  buried. 
And  while  some  piece  of  his  soule  is  yet  hym  within, 
Some  parte  of  his  funeralls  let  us  here  beginne.  10 

Dlrlge.    He  will  go  darklyng  to  his  grave. 
Neque  lux,  neque  crux,  nist  solurn  clinke,4 
Never  gentman  so  went  toward  heaven  I  thinke.5 

Yet  sirs  as  ye  wyll  the  blisse  of  heaven  win, 
When  he  commeth  to  the  grave  lay  hym  softly  in,  15 

And  all  men  take  heede  by  this  one  Gentleman, 
How  you  sette  your  love  upon  an  unkinde  woman  : 
For  these  women  be  all  suche  madde  pievish  elves, 
They  wyll  not  be  woonne  except  it  please  them  selves. 
But  in  faith  Custance  if  ever  ye  come  in  hell,  20 

Maister  Roister  Doister  shall  serve  you  as  well. 

1  Cf.  III.  iii,  53.  3  H.  changes  to  '  none.'  5  Entirely  new  line. 

2  Sic.  E.  4  Cf.  the  slight  differences  III.  iii,  59. 


Roister  Doister  187 

Good  night  Roger  old  knave,  Farewel  Roger  olde  knave. 
Good  night  Roger  olde  knave,  knave,  knap. 
Nequando.  Audim  vocem.  Requiem  teternam. 


The  Peale1  of  belles  rongby  the  parish  Clerk, 

and  Roister  Doister s  foure  men 

THE    FIRST    BELL    A    TRIPLE.2 

When  dyed  he  ?      When  dyed  he  ? 

THE    SECONDE 

We  have  hym,  We  have  hym. 

THE    THIRDE 

Royster  Doyster,  Royster  Doyster. 

THE    FOURTH    BELL 

He  commeth,  He  commeth. 

THE    CREATE    BELL 

Our  owne,  Our  owne. 

1  Cf.,  on  '  Voices'  of  Bells,  Brand,  Pop.  Ant.  i  :   114,  116. 
*  Cotgr. :  a  Triple  ;   also  Gaillard-time  in  Music. 


FINIS. 


APPENDIX 

A.  The  Metre  of  Roister  Bolster.  —  Udall's   verse  is  a   long   line  of 
9,   10,   11,   12    (and   rarely   more)    syllables;   a   verse   which  represents  the 
Middle   English   Long   Line    (or  the   Middle   English    Septenarius,  as  it  has 
been  called  for  lack  of"  a  better  name),  as  we  find  it,  for  instance,  in  Robert 
of  Gloucester,  some  Legends,  and  Robert  of  Brutnie. 

This  Middle  English  long  line,  of"  either  six  or  seven  stresses  or  accents,  is 
found  in  Skelton's  Magnyfycence,  and  other  early  Plays. 

In  Roister  Doister,  on  the  whole,  the  lines  of  six  accents  seem  to  prevail,  lines 
corresponding  to  the  Middle  English  Alexandrine,  or  in  Udall's  case  perhaps 
rather  to  the  classical  senarius,  to  the  trimeter  of  the  Roman  comedy  as  under- 
stood by  Udall.  But  a  great  number  of  septe narii  occur  at  the  side  of  these 
senarii,  distributed  all  over  the  play,  and  in  the  speeches  of  different  persons. 

In  many  cases  it  seems  even  doubtful  whether  a  verse  should  be  regarded 
as  a  senarius  or  a  septenarius. 

Specimens  of  the  Senarius  :  — 

Truepen  |  ie  get  |  thee  in  ||  thou  shalt  |  among     |  them  knowe 

I  will       |  speake  out  |  aloude    ||  I  care          |  not  who  |  heare  it. 

Specimens  of  the  Septenarius  (the  syllable  before  the  cxsura  or  the  end  of 
the  line  with  a  slighter,  secondary  accent,  produces  this  septenarius  in  most 
cases) : — 

1  go'          |  now  Tri'st  |  ram  Tru'st  |  yv  ||  I  tha'nk  |  you'  |  right  mu'ch  | 

And  set-'  |  that  in'        1  case  I'  ||  should  neede'  |  to  come'   |  to  arm'  |  ing.v 

Senarii  or  Septenarii :  — 

Yet  a  fi'tter  wi'fe  for  you'r     ||  ma'ship  mi'ght  be  fou'nde. 
Or  :  Ye't  a  fi'tter  wi'fe  for  you'r    II  ma'sliip  mi'ght  be  fou'nde. 

Such  a  good'ly  ma'n  as  you'   ||  mi'ght  get  on'e  with  la'nde. 
Or  :  Such'  a  good'ly  ma'n  as  you'  ||  mi'ght  get  on'e  with  la  nde. 

B.  The   Figure   of    the    Miles    Gloriosus    in    English    Literature.  — 

The  limits  of  this  edition  forbid  any  detailed  account  of  the  pedigree  of  the 
type  of  the  Miles  Gloriosus  in  English  Literature,  but  for  the  benefit  of  the 
student,  I  wish  to  give  the  following  references  :  — 

On  the  Miles  Gloriosus  of  the  Ancients,  cf.  the  classical  account  in 
Otto  Ribbcck's  Alti-zon,  Ein  Bcitrag  zur  Antikcn  Etbologie  unJ  z.ur  Kennt- 

189 


1 90  Appendix 

niss  der  Griechiscb-Romischcn  Tragbdie,  Leipzig,  1882.  Cf.  further  the 
masterly  sketches  in  the  History  of  Roman  Literature  (Leipzig,  1887  ;  I,  66  ; 
83)  by  the  same  author;  the  shorter  account,  "  Uber  die  Figuren  des  Miles 
Gloriosus  und  seines  Parasite  ft  bei  alter  en  und  neueren  Dichtern, "  b  y  A .  O .  F. 
Lorenz  (as  an  appendix  to  the  same  scholar's  edition  of  Plautus,  Mil.  Glor., 
Berlin,  1 886;  pp.  230  seq.}.  The  fullest  collection  of  material  for  a  gen- 
eral history  of  this  classical  type  in  modern  literature  is  contained  in  Karl 
von  Reinhardstoettner,  Plautus,  Spatere  Bearbeitungen  Plautiniscber  Lustspiele, 
Leipzig,  1886  (pp.  130^.,  595-680). 

On  the  Mil,  Glor.  in  English  Literature,  cf.  the  excellent  dissertation 
by  Herman  Graf,  Der  Mil.  Glor.  im  Engliscben  Drama  bis  zur  Zeit  des 
Burgerkrieges  Rostock,  s.  a.  [1891  ;  cf.  Koch's  note  in  Engliscbe  Studien, 
1 8,  134]. 

On  the  Shakespearian  "  quadrifoil,"  Falstaff,  Parolles,  Annado,  Pistol, 
cf.  the  charming  causerie  by  Julius  Thummel  :  Der  Mil.  Glor.  bei  Shake- 
speare [published  first  in  the  Shakespeare  Jabrbucb  of  1878,  and,  later,  in 
the  same  author's  Shakespeare  Cbaraktere,  Halle,  1887,  Vol.  I.  pp.  257- 
276]. 

C.  Titiville  (I.  i,  2l).  —  '  Tuteville  '  was  originally  the  name  of  a  devil 
in  the  French  Mystery  Plays  (cf.  Mone,  Scbauspiele  des  Mittelalters,  2,  27)'; 
from  the  French  Mystery  play  the  name  was  introduced  into  the  Mys- 
teries of  Germany,  England,2  and  Holland.  His  diabolical  occupation  is 
thus  defined  in  the  Myroure  of  our e  Ladye  (i  ch.  20;  cf.  Blunt's  note, 
342;  as  well  as  Skeat's  to  Pierce  Plozvm.,  C.  xiv,  123):  "  I  am  a  poure 
dyuel  and  my  name  is  Tytyuyllus  ...  I  muste  eche  day  .  .  .  brynge 
my  master  a  thousande  pokes  [bags]  full  of  faylynges,  &  of  neglygences  in 
syllables  and  wordes  that  are  done  in  youre  order  in  redynge  and  in  syngynge, 
&  else  I  must  be  sore  beten." 

This  '  function  '  of  the  Devil  seems  to  allow  a  connection  3  with  the  Latin 

1  Cf.  ;'£.,  the  collection  of  French  names  of  the  Devil;  and  similar  collections  in  Gosche's 
Jabrbucb,  I.;  Osborn,  Teufehlitteratur,  16.  The  English  Devil  is  still  waiting  for  his 
Historian  ! 

'2  Cf.   Toivneley  My  it.   (jfuditium,  p.  310,  etc.):   Tutivillus  (to  the  Primus  Daemon):  — 

I  was  youre  chefe  tollare 
And  sitten  courte  rollar 
Now  am  I  master  Lollar  &c. 

Gower,  too,  knows  Titivillus ;    Vox  C/amantis,  232  :  — 

Hie  est  confessor  Domini,  set!  nee  Dominarum, 
^ui  magis  est  blandus,  quam   Titivillus  eis. 

8  There  could  not  be  a  connection  with  :    Titimal/us  — Titan  (Joh.  de  Janua). 


Appendix  \  9 1 

titivillitium,1  "a  vile  thyng  of  no  value"  (Cooper),  something  very  small 
and  trifling,  like  the  "  faylynges  and  neglygences  in  syllables"  in  praying 
and  reading  of  the  church  offices. 

In  Udall's  time  the  ancient  Devil  had  degenerated,  and  his  name  had  be- 
come a  byword  for  a  low,  miserable  fellow  ;  cf.  the  play  of  Then  it  es 
(Dodsley,  i,  424):- 

Tinkers  and  laborers,  tipplers,  taverners, 
Tittirills,  trirlers,  turners  and  trumpers, 

and  Heywood's  Proverbs,  \  ch.   10  (40):  — 

There  is  no  moe  such  titifyls  in  Englandes  groundi|To  hold  with  the  hare  and  run  with  the  hound. 

D.  Mumblecrust  and  the  Maids  (I.  iii.). —  i.    Mumblecrust.    Cooper 
quotes  the  same  name  from  Dekker's  Satiromastix,  and  a   Madge   Mumble- 
crust  from  Misogonui  (1577).      Jack  M.  is  the  name  of  a  beggar  in  Patient 
Grissel,    IV.    iii    (cf.    Cooper).       Different   compounds    are   Mumble-news 
(Shakesp.    L.L.L.   V.    ii,    464)    and  Sir  John   Mumble-matins  (Pilkington, 
Exposition  upon  Aggeus,   I,  2). 

2.  Tibet.    Tib  (=  Isabella)  was  the  typical  servant's  name  ;  cf.  G.G.N.; 
Tib  and  Tom  in  AiT 's  Well,  II.  ii,  24;    "every  coistrel  inquiring  for  his 
Tib,"  Pericles,  IV.  vi,  176,  etc. 

3.  In  Alj  face :  the  first  part  indicates  the  colour  of  her  nose  and  the  desire 
of  her  heart. 

The  whole  dialogue  of  these  women  takes  us  back  to  the  times  when  it 
was  no  dishonour  to  women  to  go  "  to  the  ale  "  and  enjoy  themselves  there 
with  their  gossips  ;  cf.  P.  PL,  C.  7,  362  ;  Chester  PL,  \,  53,  etc. 

E.  The  Mock  Requiem    (III.  iii,  53)  is  one  of  the  latest  instances  of 
parodies  of  church  services  such  as  are  found  everywhere  in  the  literature 
of  the  Middle  Ages.      One  of  the  oldest  of  such  parodies  is  the  Drunkard's 
Mass,  Missa  Gulte,  printed  in  Halliwell  and  Wright's  Re  liquid-  Antique,  z, 
208  (cf.  the  Paternoster  Go/ise);   the  Qfficium  Lusorum  (printed  in  Carmina 
Bur  an  a,  248);   the  Sequentia  falsi  evangelii  sec.  Mar  cam  (Initium  5.  Evan- 
geiii sec.  marcas  argenti)  in  Du  Meril,  Poes.  Pop.  Lat.  Ant.  XII.  s.  p.  407,  etc. 

In  English  Lit.  we  find  similar  parodies  in  the  Requiem  to  the  Favourites 
ofHftirf  VI.  (Ritson's  Songs,  101  ;  FurnivalPs  Polit.  Rel.  and  Love  Song*,  6  : 
For  Jake  Napes  Sowle,  Placebo,  and  Dirige) ;  in  Passages  of  the  Court  of 
Love  (Chalmers,  Engl.  Poets,  \,  377),  in  the  Placebo  Di/exi  in  Skelton's 

1  Freund's  Diet,  quotes  it  from  Plautus,  Ctisin.  2,  5,  39  :  Ndn  t^o  istud  -vcrbum  rmpsitcm 
titiwllitio.  The  learned  Bonjonson  knew  the  word  (i'/Aw  Woman,  4,  i):  — 

Wife!  Imz  •  titivilitium 
There's  no  such  thing  in  nature  ! 


192  Appendix 

Pbyllyp  Sparowe  (perhaps  the  source  for  Udall's  happy  thought);  in  Dunbar's 
IV ill  of  Maister  An  dr.  Kennedy,  etc. 

The  parallels  to  Udall's  parody  are  to  be  found  in  Maskell's  Monumenta 
Ritualia,1  in  the  Manuale  et  Processionale  ad  usum  insignis  Eccles.  Eboracen- 
sis,-  or  in  the  Rituale  Romanum.5 

The  references  are,  for  — 

1.  The  Placebo  Dilcxi  (Ps.   114),  Man.  Ebor.  60;   Sarum  57*. 

2.  The  Antiphona  Ne  quando  (rapiat  ut  leo  animam  meant,  etc.,  Ps.  7], 
Ebor.  67.  68  ;   Sarum  69*;   Rit.  Rom.   166.   167. 

3.  The  Antiphona   Dirige    \_Domine   Deus   meus    in   conspectu    tuo   viam 
meam^,  Ebor.  65  ;   Sarum  62*;   Rit.  Rom.   166,  etc. 

4.  A  parta  infer i  \JLrue Domine  animas  eorum^ ,  Sarum  5  8*;  Rit.  Rom.  1 68. 

5.  Requiem  teternam  [dona  eis  Domine,  et  lux  perpetua  luce  at  eii\,  Ebor. 
64  ;   Sarum  59*. 

6.  The   '  Epistola '    Audivi  vocern    \Lectio   Libri  Apoc.    Job.    14,    13], 
Sarum  76*;   Rit.  Rom.  158. 

7.  The  Responsorium  :  Qui  Lazarum  \resuscitasti  a  monumento  fietidu?n~\ , 
Ebor.  69  ;    R.  Rom.   169. 

8.  The    Antiphona:    In    Paradisum   \_deducant    te   Angeli\,    Rit.     Rom. 
150,  etc. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Merygreeke  does  not  adhere  strictly  to  the  order 
of  the  Ritual,  but  produces  a  humorous  jumble. 

The  words  neque  lux  neque  crux  are  not  in  the  Ritual,  but  refer  to  the  '  order 
about  the  wax  taper  M  and  the  crucifix  in  the  extreme  unction,  etc.  See 
Maskell,  I.  ccxcviii.  ;  the  '  clinke  '  5  refers  to  the  sounding  of  the  passing 
bell  (supposed  to  drive  away  evil  spirits)6.  Latimer  remarks  about  such 

1  Inbumatio  defuncti,  I,  142.;   cf.   also   his  'dissertation'  on   the  order  of  the   Burial,    ib. 
CCXCIII. 

2  Ed.  Surtees  Soc.   1875,  P-  ^°  5   c^-  '^->   Commcndatio  Animarum  56*;   De  Alodo  Dicendi 
Exsejuias  defunctorum  ad  usum  Sarum  80*. 

3  Chapter  De  Exetjuiis ;    Officium  Defunctorum. 

*  Cf.  ib.,  cerei  qui  cum  cruce  ct  tburibulo  de  nitre  .  .  .  portabantuf  accensi  ;  unto  the 
holy  candle  commit  we  our  souls  at  our  last  departing,  Tindale,  fl^orks,  I,  225;  ib.  48; 
3,  140,  etc.  j  on  the  wax  candle  and  driving  the  Devil  away,  cf.  Latimer,  Sermons,  27  (499). 
The  reformers  were  as  much  against  the  candles  as  against  the  bells,  and  other  '  popish  supersti- 
tions ';  cf.  Grindal's  Visitation  Book  (1551-52),  £j/  40,  46,  etc. 

5  Cf.  Brand's  Pup.  Ant.  2,  220. 

G  Cf.  Durandus  Rationale,  Lib.  I.  fl>l.  9  (Dc  Campanii):  "  Uerum  aliquo  moriente  campans 
debent  pulsari  ut  populus  hoc  audiens  oret  pro  illo;  pro  muiiere  quidem  bis  .  .  .  pro  viro  vero 
ter  pulsatur,"  etc.  The  superstitious  background  was  that  the  bells  were  believed  to  drive  away 
evil  spirits.  Cf.  ib.,  "  campana1  puls.mtur  ut  demones  timentes  fugiant  .  .  .  h;rc  etiam  est 
causa  quare  ecclesia  videns  concitari  tempcstates  campanas  pulsat  ut  demones  tubas  eterni  regis 
id  est  campanas  audientes  territi  fugiant  et  a  tempestatis  concitatione  quiescant  ct  ut  camparur  pul- 
sationes  hdeles  admoneant  et  prouocent  pro  instanti  periculo  oration!  insistere,"  and  Brand's  Pop. 
Ant.  2,  202. 


Appendix  193 

'fooleries  '  :  "The  devil  should  have  no  abiding  place  in  England  if  ringing 
of  bells  would  serve"  (Serm.,  27,  498),  and  the  English  reformers  were,  on 
the  whole,  of  Larimer's  opinion  j1  but  there  were  more  tolerant  men  who 
ultimately  prevailed,  and  so  in  course  of  time  one  short  peal  before  the 
funeral  was  allowed,  and  one  after  it,2  and  even  a  threefold  peal  was  per- 
mitted by  Whitgift.3 

On  the  history  of  the  Funeral  Bell,  valuable  material  is  contained  in  the 
Parker  Soc.  '  Index,'  s.v.  Bells  (cf.  ib.  sub.  '  Candles'). 

III.  iii,  81,  83  :  '  Pray  for,'  etc.  If  this  passage  were  in  a  serious  con- 
text, interesting  deductions  could  be  drawn  from  it  as  to  Udall's  religious 
views,  and  perhaps  as  to  the  date  of  the  play.  Prayers  for  the  dead  were 
entirely  against  the  spirit  and  doctrines  of  the  early  Reformers.  But  here 
also  less  radical  views  were  held,  and  so  we  find  the  Prayer  enjoined  by 
Cranmer,  1534  (Works,  z,  460),  by  Edward  VI.  (Injunctions,  1547,  ib. 
504).  To  mock  the  prayer  would  probably  have  been  unsafe  between  I  547 
and  1556,  when  Udall  died.  Edward's  Common  Prayer  Book  of  1549  re- 
tains the  prayer  for  the  dead  (p.  88,  145),  but  the  edition  of  1552  is  silent 
about  it  (i&.  272,  319).  In  Elizabeth's  Primer  of  1559  this  Prayer  is  re- 
introduced  (cf.  Priv.  Prayers,  59,  67);  but  later  Protestants  again  condemn 
it,  e.g.  Whitgift  (1574).  3>  364- 

F.  Roister  as  'vagrant.'     IV.   iii,   104. — Of  all  the  statutes  against 
vagrants,  that  of   I    Edward   VI.  (c.  3),   1547,  affords  the  best  parallel   to 
Custance's  resolute  and  humorous  words.       This  law  determines  that  "  who- 
soever .    .    .    being  not  lame  shall  either  like  a  seruing-man  wanting  a  master, 
or  like  a  beggar  or  after  any  such  other  sort  be  lurking  in  any  house  or  houses, 
or  loitering,  or  idle  wandering  by  the  high  wayes  side,  or  in  streets,  cities, 
townes,  or  villages   .    .    .    then  euery  such  person  shall  bee  taken  for  a  vaga- 
bond,   .    .    .    and  it   shalbe   lawfull   ...    to  any   .    .    .    person  espying  the 
same,  to  bring  or  cause  to  be  brought  the  said  person  so  liuing  idle  and  laiter- 
ing/V,  to  two  of  the  next  justices  of  the  peace,"  etc. 

G.  The  prayer  and  '  song  '  at  the  end  of  the  play.     V.  vi,  47.  —  I  am 
inclined  to  think   that  the  song  which   '  they   sing '   according  to  the  stage 
direction,  is  not  given,4  and   that  verses  47—59  are  spoken,  and  represent  the 
'  prayer'  which  the  actors  would  all  say  kneeling  (cf.  Nares's  Glossary,  s.v. 
'kneel').      That   the    '  Queene '    referred    to   is  Eli/abeth,  and   not    Mary, 
becomes  clear  from   the  words  "  God  graunt  hir  as  she  doth,  the  Gospell  to 

1  bells       .    .   with  such  other  vanities,  Tindale,  3,  258  ;  ape's  play,  ib.  283,  etc. 
»  Grindal,  fr<.rks,  136. 

8  3,  362  ;    Injunctions  at  York,  1571,  8  ;    Articles  at  Canterbury,  1576,  9. 
*  Collier,  Hist.  Dram.  Poetry,  2,  459,  thinks  the  whole  epilogue  is  'sung.' 


1 94  Appendix 

protect.      This  proves,  too,  that  these  words  are  not  by  Udall,  but  by  the 
unknown  hand  that  prepared  the  play  for  the  press  under  Elizabeth. 
H.    Works  quoted  in  the  notes.  — 

ARBER.    The  editions  of  Roister  Doister  in  Arber's  English  Reprints  — 

1.  of  July  I,   1869. 

2.  of  July  24,  1869. 

N.B.  The  only  difference  which  I  have  found  between  the  two  reprints  is 
the  absence  of  one  line  [III.  iv,  66]  on  p.  51  in  the  ed.  of  July  24;  the  line 
is  contained  in  ed.  of  July  I,  1869. 

CAMDEN.    Proverbs  in  <  Remaines  concerning  Britaine.'        London,  1623. 
COOPER.    Ralph  Roister  Doister,  a  comedy,  ed.  by  W.  D.  Cooper,  London. 

Printed  for  the  Shakespeare  Society,   1847. 
COTGRAVE.    A  French  and  English  Dictionary,  ed.   1650  (with  the  addition 

of  Dictionaire  Anglais  &  Francois,    by   Robert  Sherwood.        [ist  ed. 

1611.] 

DODSLEY,  s.  HAZLITT. 
FLUGEL.    Neuenglisches  Lesebuch  von  Ewald  Fliigel,  Vol.  I.      "Die  Zeit 

Heinrich's  VIII."      Halle,   1895. 
HALLIWELL.    A  Dictionary  of  Archaic  and  Provincial  Words,  by  J.  O.  Halli- 

well.      London,  1847. 
HAZLITT.    Edition    of   Roister    Doister    in    "A    Select    Collection   of  Old 

English     Plays,"    originally    published     by    Robert    Dodsley,     1744'. 

Fourth  ed.   by  W.   Carew  Hazlitt.      London,    1874   (Vol.    3). 
HEYWOOD.    The    Proverbs  of  John    Hey  wood    [first    published    in     1546? 

and  reprinted  from  ed.   1598  by  Julian  Sharman] .      London,   1874. 
Epigrams  [reprinted  from  ed.    1562].      Printed  for    the  Spenser  Society, 

1867. 
PALSGRAVE.    Lesclarcissement  de  la  Langue   Fran  coy  se  compose  par  Maistre 

Jehan  Palsgraue,  1530.      Pub.  par  F.  Genin.      Paris,   1852. 
RAY.    A  Compleat  Collection  of  English  Proverbs,  by  J.  Ray.      Third  ed. 

London,   1742. 


William  Stevenson 


GAMMER   GURTONS 
NEDLE 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay 
and  Notes  by  Henry  Brad- 
ley, Hon.  M.A.,  Oxford 


CRITICAL    ESSAY 

Date  of  the  Play  and  its  Authorship.  — The  title-page  of  the  earliest 
known  edition  of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle,  printed  by  Thomas  Col- 
well  in  1575,  states  that  this  "right  pithy,  pleasaunt,  and  merie 
comedie  "  was  u  played  on  stage,  not  longc  ago,  in  Christes  Colledgc 
in  Cambridge,"  and  that  it  was  "  made  by  Mr.  S.,  Mr.  of  Art." 
There  is  here  no  intimation  that  any  former  edition  had  appeared. 
But  the  register  of  the  Company  of  Stationers  shows  that  in  the 
year  ending  22  July,  1563,  Colwell  paid  4d.  for  licence  to  print  a 
play  entitled  Dyccon  of  Bedlam,  etc. ;  and  as  "  Diccon  the  Bedlam  " 
is  a  most  important  character  in  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  (his  name, 
by  good  right,  standing  first  in  the  list  of  dramatis  persona-},  there 
is  a  fair  presumption  that  the  piece  for  which  Colwell  obtained  a 
licence  in  1562—3  was  in  substance  identical  with  that  which  he 
actually  printed  in  1575  under  another  title.1  Whether  D\ccon  was 
really  published  in  or  soon  after  1563,  or  whether  Colwell  for  some 
reason  or  other  allowed  twelve  years  to  elapse  before  carrying  out 
his  intention  of  publishing  the  play,  cannot  now  be  determined  with 
certainty ;  the  balance  of  probability  seems,  however,  to  be  in 
favour  of  the  latter  supposition.2 

The  identity  of  "  Mr.  S.,  Master  of  Art,"  to  whom  the  author- 
ship of  the  comedy  is  ascribed  on  the  title-page,  appears  to  be  dis- 
coverable by  means  of  certain  evidence  contained  in  the  bursar's 
books  of  Christ's  College,  for  the  knowledge  of  which  the  present 
editor  is  indebted  to  the  kindness  o'  the  Master  of  that  college, 

1  The  alternative  possibility  is  that  Gammer  Gurton  was  a  sequel  to  Dyaon.  In  that  case 
the  two  plays  would  most  probably  be  by  the  same  author,  so  that  the  value  of  the  argument 
in  the  next  paragraph  would  hardly  be  affected. 


198  William    Stevenson 

Dr.  Peile.  If  we  are  right  in  identifying  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle 
with  the  play  which  was  licenced  to  the  printer  in  the  year  ending 
22  July,  1563,  the  performance  at  Christ's  College  must  have  taken 
place  before  that  date,  for  it  was  not  the  custom  to  send  a  play  to 
the  press  before  it  had  been  acted.  Now,  in  the  academic  year 
ending  Michaelmas,  1563,  there  is  no  record  of  any  dramatic  repre- 
sentation having  been  given  in  the  college.  In  the  preceding  year, 
1561— 62,  the  accounts  mention  certain  sums  "spent  at  Mr.  Chath- 
erton's  playe."  The  person  referred  to  is  William  Chaderton,  then 
Fellow  of  Christ's  ;  but,  as  his  name  does  not  begin  with  S,  this 
entry  does  not  concern  our  inquiry.  In  1560—61  there  is  no 
mention  of  any  play;  but  in  1559—60  we  find  the  two  following 
items  :  — 

"To  the  viales  at  Mr.  Chatherton's  plaie,  2j.  6^." 

"Spent  at  Mr.  Stevenson's  plaie,  5^." 

As  no  evidence  to  the  contrary  has  been  found,  it  appears  highly 
probable  that  the  "Mr.  S."  of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  was  William 
Stevenson,  Fellow  of  Christ's  College  from  1559  to  1561.  It  is 
further  probable  that  he  is  identical  with  the  person  of  the  same 
name  who  was  Fellow  of  the  college  from  1551  to  I554,1  and  who 
appears  in  the  bursar's  accounts  as  the  author  of  a  play  acted  in  the 
year  1553—54.  It  may  be  presumed  that  he  was  deprived  of  his 
fellowship  under  Queen  Mary,  and  was  reinstated  under  Elizabeth. 
Whether  Stevenson's  play  of  1559—60  was  the  same  which  had 
been  given  six  years  before,  or  whether  it  was  a  new  one,  there  is 
no  evidence  to  show.  The  former  supposition,  however,  derives 
some  plausibility  from  the  fact  that,  as  several  critics  have  pointed 
out,  the  allusions  to  church  matters  in  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  seem 
to  indicate  a  pre-Elizabethan  date  for  its  composition.2  At  all 
events  it  seems  likely  that  the  play  of  1553—54  was  in -English,  for 

1  If  the  Stevenson  of  1559-61    was   not   identical   with    his   namesake,  some  record   of  his 
graduations  and  matriculation  ought  to  exist.      But   Dr.    Peile,   who   has  taken   the  trouble  to 
search  through  the  university  registers  for  several  years  prior  to  1559,  informs  me  that  no  such 
record  can  be  found. 

2  The  reference  to  the  king,  moreover,  in  Act  V.  ii,  236  would  strengthen  the  probability 
that  the  play  of  1575   (and    1559-60)  was  originally  composed  during  Stevenson's  first  fellow- 
ship 5   at  any  rate  before  the  death  of  Edward  VI.      It  might  therefore  be  identical  with  the  play 
acted  in  I  553—4.  —  Gen.  Ed. 


William   Stevenson  \  99 

the  accounts  speak  of  a  Latin  play  (managed  by  another  Fellow, 
named  Persevall)  as  having  been  performed  in  the  same  year. 

Of  Stevenson's  historv  nothing  is  known,  beyond  the  bare  facts 
that  he  was  born  at  Hunwick  in  Durham,  matriculated  as  a  sizar 
in  November,  1546,  became  B.A.  in  1549—50,  M.A.  in  1553,  and 
B.D.  in  1560.  He  was  ordained  deacon  in  London  in  1552,  ap- 
pointed prebendary  of  Durham  in  January,  1560—61,  and  died  in 
1575,  the  year  in  which  Gammer  Gurton  was  printed. 

It  may  at  first  sight  appear  to  be  a  formidable  objection  to 
Stevenson's  authorship  of  the  play,  that  the  title-page  of  the  edition 
of  1575  speaks  of  the  representation  at  Cambridge  as  having  taken 
place  "  not  longe  ago."  lint  Colwell  had  had  the  MS.  in  his  pos- 
session ever  since  1563  ;  and  there  is  nothing  unlikely  in  the  suppo- 
sition that  the  wording  of  the  original  title-page  was  retained  without 
any  other  alteration  than  the  change  in  the  name  of  the  piece. 
The  title-page,  it  may  be  remarked,  is  undated,  the  tablet  at  the  foot, 
which  is  apparently  intended  to  receive  the  date,  being  left  blank. 
This  fact  may  possibly  indicate  that  when  the  printing  of  the  vol- 
ume was  begun  it  was  anticipated  that  its  publication  might  have  to 
be  delayed  for  some  time.1  The  appearance  of  the  title-page  suggests 
the  possibility  that  it  may  have  been  altered  after  being  set  up : 
"  Gammer  gur-  \  tons  Nedle  "  in  small  italic  may  have  been  substi- 
tuted for  Diccon  of  |  Bedlam  in  type  as  large  as  that  of  the  other 
words  in  the  same  lines.  In  Colwell's  edition  of  Ingelend's  Diso- 
bedient Child  (printed  1560)  the  title-page  has  the  same  woodcut 
border,  but  the  name  of  the  piece  is  in  type  of  the  same  size  as  that 
of  the  preceding  and  following  words.  As  this  woodcut  does  not 
occur  in  any  other  of  Colwell's  publications  now  extant,  it  seems 
reasonable  to  infer  that  Gammer  Gurton  was  printed  long  before  1575. 

Former  Attributions  of  Authorship.  —  It  is  necessary  to  say  some- 
thing about  the  two  persons  to  whom  the  authorship  of  Gammer 
Gurtons  Nedle  has  hitherto  been  attributed  —  Dr.  John  Bridges,  who 
was  in  succession  Dean  of  Salisbury  and  Bishop  of  Oxford,  and 
Dr.  John  Still,  who  was  made  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  in  1593. 

1  Too  much  importance  must  not,  however,  he  attached  to  this,  as  the  same  thing  is  found 
in  the  title-page  of  The  Disobedient  Child,  above  referred  to.  The  date  of  1575  for  our  comedy 
\s  given  in  the  colophon  at  the  end  ot  the  book.  Sec  ilso  p.  106  n. 


200  W^illiam   Stevenson 

It  is  curious  that  both  the  distinguished  churchmen  who  have  been 
credited  with  the  composition  of  this  very  unclerical  play  received 
the  degree  of  D.D.  in  the  same  year  in  which  it  was  published. 

The  evidence  on  which  it  has  been  attempted  to  assign  the  play 
to  John  Bridges  is  contained  in  certain  passages  of  the  "  Martin 
Marprelate  "  tracts.  In  the  first  of  these,  the  Epistle,  published  in 
1588,  the  author  addresses  Bridges  in  the  following  terms:  — 

"  You  have  bin  a  worthy  writer,  as  they  say,  of  a  long  time  ;  your  first 
book  was  a  proper  enterlude,  called  Gammar  Gurtons  Needle.  But  I  think 
that  this  trifle,  which  sheweth  the  author  to  have  had  some  witte  and  inven- 
tion in  him,  was  none  of  your  doing,  because  your  books  seeme  to  proceede 
from  the  braynes  of  a  woodcocke,  as  having  neither  wit  nor  learning." 

In  his  second  pamphlet,  the  Epitome,  "  Martin  Marprelate  "  twice 
alludes  to  the  dean's  supposed  authorship  of  the  play,  in  a  manner 
which  conveys  the  impression  that  he  really  believed  in  it.  None 
of  "  Martin's  "  adversaries  seem  to  have  contradicted  his  statement 
on  this  point,  though  Cooper  in  particular  was  at  great  pains  to 
refute  the  pamphleteer's  "slanders"  on  other  dignitaries.  It  must 
be  admitted  that  everything  that  is  known  of  Bridges  is  decidedly 
favourable  to  the  supposition  that  he  might  have  written  comedy  in 
his  youth.  His  voluminous  Defence  of  the  Government  of  the  Church 
of  England  abounds  in  sprightly  quips,  often  far  from  dignified  in 
tone ;  and  his  controversial  opponents  complained,  with  some  jus- 
tice, of  his  "  buffoonery."  He  is  recorded  by  Harrington  to  have 
been  a  prolific  writer  of  verse;  and  that  his  interests  were  not 
exclusively  theological  appears  from  the  fact  that  he  is  said  to  have 
translated,  in  1558,  three  of  Machiavelli's  Discourses,  having  pre- 
viously resided  in  Italy.  The  only  reason  for  rejecting  "  Martin 
Marprelate's  "  attribution  of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  to  him  is  that 
he  was  not  "  Mr.  S.,"  and  that  he  belonged  not  to  Christ's  College, 
but  to  Pembroke.  But  as  he  was  resident  at  Cambridge  in  1560 
(having  taken  the  degree  of  A.M.  in  that  year),  it  is  quite  possible 
that  he  may  have  assisted  William  Stevenson  in  the  composition  or 
revision  of  the  play. 

The  name  of  Bishop  Still  is  so  familiar  as  that  of  the  reputed 
author  of  Gammer  Gurton,  that  many  readers  will  be  surprised  to 


W^illiam    Stevenson  201 

learn  that  this  attribution  was  first  proposed  in  1782  by  Isaac  Reed 
in  his  enlarged  edition  of  Baker's  Biographia  Dramatical  Reed 
discovered  in  the  accounts  of  Christ's  College  an  entry  referring 
to  a  play  acted  at  Christmas,  1567  (not  1566,  as  he  states);  and  as 
this  is  the  latest  entry  of  the  kind  occurring  before  1575,  he  plausi- 
bly inferred  that  it  related  to  the  representation  of  Gammer  Gurtons 
AW/f,  which  in  Colwell's  title-page  was  stated  to  have  taken  place 
"  not  long  ago."  The  only  Master  of  Arts  of  the  college  then 
living,  whose  surname  began  with  S,  that  he  was  able  to  find, 
was  John  Still,  whom  he  therefore  confidently  identified  with  the 
"  Mr.  S."  who  is  said  to  have  written  Gammer  Gurton.  If  our 
arguments  in  favour  of  Stevenson's  authorship  be  accepted,  Reed's 
conclusion  of  course  falls  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  character  of 
Bishop  Still,  as  it  is  known  from  the  testimony  of  several  of  his 
personal  friends,  renders  it  incredible  that  he  can  ever  have  dis- 
tinguished himself  as  a  comic  writer.  The  characteristic  quality 
by  which  he  seems  chiefly  to  have  impressed  his  contemporaries 
was  his  extraordinary  seriousness.  Archbishop  Parker,  in  1573, 
speaks  of  him  as  "  a  young  man,"  but  "  better  mortified  than  some 
other  forty  or  fifty  years  of  age  "  ;  and  another  eulogist  commends 
"  his  staidness  and  gravity."  If  Still's  seriousness  had  been,  like 
that  of  many  grave  and  dignified  persons,  in  any  eminent  degree 
qualified  by  wit,  there  would  surely  have  been  some  indication  of 
the  fact  in  the  vivaciously  written  account  of  him  given  by  Har- 
rington. But  neither  there  nor  elsewhere  is  there  any  evidence 
that  he  ever  made  a  joke,  that  he  ever  wrote  a  line  of  verse,  or 
that  he  had  any  interests  other  than  those  connected  with  his  sacred 
calling.  A  fact  which  has  often  been  remarked  upon  as  strange  by 
those  who  have  accepted  the  current  theory  of  Still's  authorship 
of  Gammer  Gurton  is  that  in  1592,  when  he  was  vice-chancellor 
of  Cambridge,  his  signature,  followed  by  those  of  other  heads  of 
houses,  was  appended  to  a  memorial  praying  that  the  queen  would 
allow  a  Latin  play  to  be  substituted  for  the  English  play  which  she 
had  commanded  to  be  represented  b\  the  university  actors  on  the 
occasion  of  her  approaching  visit.  The  memorialists  urged  that 

1  This  title  was  given  by  Reed;    Baker's  original  work  of  1762   was  called  .7  Di<tit,nari 
(if  the  Stage. 


202  W^illiam    Stevenson 

the  performance  of  English  plays  had  not  been  customary  in  the 
university,  being  thought  "  nothing  beseminge  our  students."  It  is 
not  necessary  to  attribute  much  importance  to  this  incident,  but,  so 
far  as  it  has  any  bearing  on  the  question  at  all,  it  goes  to  support 
the  conclusion,  already  certain  on  other  grounds,  that  the  author 
of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  cannot  have  been  John  Still.1 

Place  in  the  History  of  Comedy. —  In  attempting  to  assign  the  place 
of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  in  the  history  of  the 'English  drama,  we 
should  remember  that  it  is  the  sole  surviving  example  of  the  ver- 
nacular college  comedies —  probably  more  numerous  than  is  com- 
monly suspected  —  produced  during  the  sixteenth  century,  and  that 
most  of  the  features  which  appear  to  us  novel  were  doubtless  the 
result  of  a  gradual  development.  So  far  as  our  knowledge  goes, 

O  O          D  * 

however,  it  is  the  second  English  comedy  conforming  to  the  struct- 
ural type  which  modern  Europe  has  learned  from  the  example  of  the 
Roman  playwrights.  The  choice  of  the  old  "  septenary  "  measure, 
in  which  most  of  the  dialogue  is  written,  may  have  been  due  to 
recollection  of  the  Terentian  iambic  tetrameter  catalectic,  just  as  the 
rugged  Alexandrines  of  Ralph  Roister  Doister  were  probably  suggested 
by  the  Latin  comic  senarius.  But  while  in  Udall's  play  the  matter 
as  well  as  the  form  is  largely  of  classical  origin,  the  plot  and  the 
characters  of  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  are  purely  native.  Its  material 
is  drawn  at  first  hand  from  observation  of  English  life ;  its  literary 
ancestry,  so  far  as  it  has  any,  is  mainly  to  be  traced  through  John 
Heywood's  interludes  to  the  farces  of  the  fifteenth-century  mysteries, 
of  which  one  brilliant  example  is  preserved  in  the  Secunda  Pastorum 
of  the  Towneley  cycle. 

The  artistic  merit  of  the  piece  has  often  been  unduly  depreciated, 
from  causes  which  it  is  not  difficult  to  understand.  The  very  rudi- 
mentary kind  of  humour  which  turns  on  physically  disgusting  sug- 
gestions is  no  longer  amusing  to  educated  people,  and  there  is  so 
much  of  this  poor  stuff  in  the  play  that  the  real  wit  of  some  scenes, 
and  the  clever  portraiture  of  character  throughout,  have  not  received 
their  fair  share  of  acknowledgment.  Most  people  who  have  lived 

1  The  arguments  against  Still's  authorship  of  Gammer  Gurton,  and  in  favour  of  that  of  Bridges, 
arc  stated  at  length  in  an  article  by  Mr.  C.  H.  Ross  in  the  nineteenth  volume  of  Angiia  ( 1896), 
to  which  we  are  indebted  for  several  useful  references. 


William   Steve?ison  203 

long  in  an  English  village  will  recognise  Gammer  Gurton  and  Dame 
Chat  as  capital  studies  from  life,  though  their  modern  representa- 
tives are  not  quite  so  foul-mouthed  in  their  wrath  as  the  gossips  of 
the  sixteenth  century  ;  and  Hodge,  whose  name  has  become  the 
conventional  designation  of  the  English  farm  labourer,  is  an  equally 
lifelike  figure.  The  brightly  drawn  character  of  Diccon  represents 
a  tvpe  which  the  working  of  the  poor  laws,  and  many  social  changes, 
have  banished  from  our  villages.  But  old  people  who  were  living 
down  to  the  middle  of  this  century  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  the 
crazy  wanderer,  who  was  recognised  as  too  feather-brained  to  be 
set  to  any  useful  work,  but  who  was  a  welcome  guest  in  cottage 
homes,  and  whose  pranks  were  looked  on  with  kindly  toleration  by 
well-disposed  people,  even  when  they  led  to  inconvenient  conse- 
quences.1 The  game  of  cross-purposes  brought  about  by  Diccon's 
machinations,  which  forms  the  plot,  is  humorously  imagined,  and 
worked  out  with  some  skill.  It  does  not,  of  course,  rise  above  the 
level  of  farce  ;  but  there  is  real  comedy,  not  quite  of  the  lowest 
order,  in  the  scene  where  the  fussy  self-importance  of  Dr.  Rat,  burst- 
ing with  impotent  rage  at  his  well-merited  discomfiture,  is  confronted 
with  the  calm  impartiality  of  "  Master  Baily  "  —  the  steward  of  the 
lord  of  the  manor,  apparently,  and  the  representative  of  temporal 
authority  in  the  village.  The  common  verdict  that  Gammer  Gur- 
tons  Nedle  is  a  work  of  lower  rank  than  Ralph  Roister  Doister  is 
perhaps  on  the  whole  not  unjust ;  but  the  later  play  has  some  merits 
of  its  own,  and,  as  the  first  known  attempt  to  present  a  picture  of 
contemporary  rustic  life  in  the  form  of  a  regular  comedy,  it  may  be 
admitted  to  represent  a  distinct  advance  in  the  development  of 
English  dramatic  art. 

Dialect.  —  The  treatment  of  dialect  in  the  play  demands  a  word 
of  notice.  All  the  characters,  except  the  curate  and  the  baily,  who 
belong  to  the  educated  class,  and  Diccon,  who  may  be  presumed  to 
have  come  down  from  a  better  social  station  than  that  of  the  village 
people,  use  a  kind  of  speech  which  is  clearly  intended  to  represent  the 
dialect  of  the  southwestern  counties.  It  is  not  always  very  correct ; 

1  Of  course  it  is  not  meant  that  these  persons  corresponded  exactly  to  the  type  represented  by 
Diccon — the  ex-patient  of  Bethlehem  Hospital,  discharged  as  being  supposed  to  be  cured  or 
rendered  harmless,  and  wearing  a  badge  indicating  the  possession  of  a  licence  to  beg. 


204  W^illiam    Stevenson 

the  writer,  for  instance,  seems  to  have  thought  that  cham  stood  for 
"  am  "  as  well  as  "  I  am,"  so  that  he  makes  Hodge  say  "  cham  I 
not."  Stevenson,  as  we  have  seen,  was  of  northern  birth  ;  and,  as 
a  line  or  two  in  the  same  dialect  is  found  in  Ralph  Roister  Doister, 
there  is  some  reason  for  believing  that  the  dialect  of  the  stage  rustic 
was  already  a  matter  of  established  convention.1  The  word  pes,  a 
hassock,  which  occurs  in  the  play,  is  peculiar,  so  far  as  is  known,  to 
the  East  Anglian  dialect,  and  may  have  been  picked  up  by  the  author 
in  his  walks  about  Cambridge.  Whether  derived  from  Gammer 
Gurton  or  from  plays  of  earlier  date,  the  conventional  dialect  of 
the  stage  rustic  kept  its  place  throughout  the  Elizabethan  period. 
Shakspere's  rustics,  as  is  well  known,  mostly  use  the  southwestern 
forms,  not  those  current  in  the  poet's  native  Warwickshire. 

The  Present  Text.  —  The  text  of  the  present  edition  is  taken  from 
the  copy  of  ColwelFs  edition  (1575)  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  The 
original  spelling  has  been  preserved,  except  thaty  and  v  are  substi- 
tuted for  /'  and  u  when  used  as  consonants,  and  u  for  v  when  used 
as  a  vowel.  Obvious  misprints  have  been  corrected,  but  are  men- 
tioned in  the  footnotes  (except  in  the  case  of  mere  errors  of  word- 
division,  which  it  seemed  unnecessary  to  notice).  The  punctuation, 
and  the  use  of  initial  capitals,  have  been  conformed  to  modern  prac- 
tice. Another  copy  of  Colwell's  edition  is  in  the  British  Museum. 
The  play  was  reprinted  in  1661,  and,  with  modernised  spelling,  in 
Dodsley's  Old  Plays,  and  in  the  new  edition  of  Dodsley  by  W.  C. 
Hazlitt.  An  excellent  edition,  with  the  original  spelling,  was  pub- 
lished in  1897  by  Professor  J.  M.  Manly,  in  vol.  ii.  of  his  Specimens 
of  the  Pre-Shaksperean  Drama.  Several  of  the  readings  which  are 
given  in  Professor  Manly's  text  or  footnotes  as  those  of  Colwell's 
edition  do  not  agree  with  those  either  of  the  London  or  the  Oxford 
copy.  In  the  footnotes  to  the  present  edition  reference  to  Colwell's, 
Hazlitt's,  and  Manly's  editions  are  indicated  by  Ed.  1575,  H.  and 
M.,  respectively. 

HENRY   BRADLEY. 

1  In  Pikeryng's  Horestes  (  I  567),  which  is  some  years  earlier  than  the  first  known  publication 
of  Gammer  Gurton,  the  country  characters  (one  of  whom  is  named  Hodge)  speak  a  strongly 
marked  southwestern  dialect. 


Pithy,    Pleafaunt  and   me 

Tit  ComeDte :  31^ 

t^tUlfU     Gammer    gur-- 

tons  NeJle:  plageli  on 

Stage,  not  longe 

ago  in  &tyi'- 

ft£0 

Co  Hedge  in  Cambridge 
Made  by  Mr.  S.  Mr.  of  Art.. 

Smprontrt  at  ILonticm  in 

JUete  ftrect  brnct|)  tljc  Con= 

tjutt  at  tf}e  Cignc  of  S.  3o|)n 

Efaangcltft  bg  2Ti)o= 

w^/  Colivell. 


The  Names  of  the  Speakers  in  this 
Comedie 


Bedlem. 


,  •',  .  .1  c<  -L^d, 

fi  LftUlU      0>.       f  C«Wt"     U. 


HODGE,  2   Gammer  Gurtons  servante. 

TYB,    Gammer  Gurtons  mayde. 

GAMMER  GURTON. 

CocKE,3  Gammer  Gurtons  boye. 

DAME  CHATTE. 

DOCTOR  RAT,  the  Curate. 

MAYSTER  BAYLYE.  -   t',<_  tU.*.W«ft-^ 

DOLL,   Dame  Chattes  mayde. 

ScAPETHRYFT,4   Mayst.  Beylies  servante. 

Mutes.     5  w  \  • 

God  Save  the  Queene. 


1  The  older  form  of  Dick,  nickname  for  Richard. 

2  Nickname  for  Roger. 
8  Misprinted  Docke. 

4  Professor  Manly  gives  scapetbryk  as  the  reading  of  the  edition  of  1575  ;  but  in  the  copies 
in  the  Bodleian  Library  and  in  the  British  Museum  the  name  is  printed  correctly. 

P.  205  represents  the  title-page  (but  without  the  border)  to  which  I  refer  on  p.  199. 
Mr.  W.  J.  Lewis  points  out  to  me  that  this  woodcut  title-page  had  been  used  previously  by 
William  Copland,  in  1553,  for  his  editions  of  Douglas's  /Encn  and  Pa/ice  of  Honour. 


Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle 


The  Prologue.  AS 

As  Gammer  Gurton  with  manye  a  wyde  styche 
Sat  pesynge  and  patching  of  Hodg  her  mans  briche, 
By  chance  or  misfortune,  as  shee  her  geare  tost, 
In  Hodge  lether  bryches  her  needle  shee  lost. 
When  Diccon  the  bedlem  had  hard  by  report  5 

That  good  Gammer  Gurton  was  robde  in  thys  sorte, 
He  quyetly  perswaded  with  her  in  that  stound  l 
Dame  Chat,  her  deare  gossyp,  this  needle  had  found  ; 
Yet  knew  shee  no  more  of  this  matter,  alas  ! 
Then    knoeth    Tom,    our    clarke,    what    the    priest    saith    at 
masse.  10 

Hereof  there  ensued  so  fearfull  a  fraye, 
Mas2  Doctor  was  sent  for,  these  gossyps  to  staye, 
Because  he  was  curate,  and  estemed  full  wyse  ; 
Who  found  that  he  sought  not,  by  Diccons  device. 
When  all  thinges  were  tombled  and  cleane  out  of  fassion,     I  5 
Whether  it  were  by  fortune,  or  some  other  constellacion, 
Sodenlye  the  neele  Hodge  found  by  the  prickynge, 
And  drew  it  out  of  his  bottocke,  where  he  felt  it  stickynge. 
Theyr  hartes  then  at  rest  with  perfect  securytie, 
With  a  pot  of  good  nale  they  stroake  up  theyr  plauditie.        20 

1  moment,  time.  a  A  common  contraction  for  master. 

107 


2o8  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  i 

u"   ,  /'  :</T  LI    i\(,.^    ^       ;'..  :t 

The  fyrst  Acte.     The  fyrst  Sceane. 

DlCCON. 

D'iccon.    Many  a  myle  have  I  walked,  divers  and  sundry  waies, 
And  many  a  good  mans  house  have  I  bin  at  in  my  daies  ; 
Many  a  gossips  cup  in  my  tyme  have  I  tasted, 
And  many  a  broche  *  and  spyt  have  I  both  turned  and  basted  ; 
Many  a  peece  of  bacon  have  I  had  out  of  thir  balkes,  5 

In  ronnyng  over  the  countrey,  with  long  and  were  walkes  ; 
Yet  came  my  foote  never  within  those  doore  cheekes, 
To  seeke  flesh  or  fysh,  garlyke,  onyons,  or  leekefs], 
That  ever  I  saw  a  sorte2  in  such  a  plyght 

As  here  within  this  house  appereth  to  my  syght.  i  o 

There  is  howlynge  and  scowlyng,  all  cast  in  a  dumpe, 
With    whewling    and    pewling,   as    though    they    had    lost    a 
trump.  A  ii  b 

Syghing  and  sobbing,  they  weepe  and  they  wayle  ; 
I  marvell  in  my  mynd  what  the  devill  they  ayle. 
The  olde  trot  syts  groning,  with  alas  !   and  alas  !  15 

And  Tib  wringes  her  hands,  and  takes  on  in  worse  case. 
With  poore  Cocke,  theyr  boye,  they  be  dryven  in  such  fyts, 
I  feare  mee  the  folkes  be  not  well  in  theyr  wyts. 
Aske  them  what  they  ayle,  or  who  brought  them  in  this  staye, 
They  aunswer  not  at  all,  but  "  alacke  !  "  and  "  welaway  !  "   20 
Whan  I  saw  it  booted  not,  out  at  doores  I  hyed  mee, 
And  caught  a  slyp  of  bacon,  when  I  saw  that  none  spyed  nice, 
Which  I  intend  not  far  hence,  unles  my  purpose  fayle, 
Shall  serve  for  a  shoinghornc  to  draw  on  two  pots  of  ale. 

1  'Broche'  and  'spit'  are  synonymous. 

2  set  of  people,  company  5  cf.  Heywood,  Play  of  the  Wether,  1.  94. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  209 

The  fyrst  Acte.     The  second  Sceane. 

HODGK.         DlCCON. 

Hodge.    See !  so  cham  1  arayed  with  dablynge  in  the  durt  ! 

She  that  set  me  to  ditchinge,  ich  wold  she  hat  the  squrt ! 

Was  never  poore  soule  that  such  a  life  had. 

Gogs  bones  !   thys  vylthy  glaye  hase  drest  me  to  bad  ! 

f?n^s  *nnle  !  see  how  this  stuffe  teares  !  5 

Iche  were  better  to  bee  a  bearward  and  set  to  keepe  beares  ! 

By  the  Masse,  here  is  a  gasshe,  a  shamefull  hole  in  deade  ! 

And  one  stytch  teare  furder,  a  man  may  thrust  in  his  heade. 
Diccon.    By_jriy  fathers  soule,  Hodge,  if  I  shoulde  now  be  sworne, 

I  can  not  chuse  but  say  thy  breech  is  foule  betorne,  10 

But  the  next  remedye  in  such  a  case  and  hap 

Is  to  plaunche  on  a  piece  as  brode  as  thy  cap. 
Hodge.    Gogs  soule,  man,  tis  not  yet  two  dayes  fully  ended 

Synce  my  dame  Gurton,  chem  sure,  these  breches  amended  ; 

But  cham  made  suc[h]e  a  drudge  to  trudge  at  euery  neede,   I  5 

Chwold  rend  it  though^it  were  stitched  with  2  sturdy  pacthreede. 
Diccon.    Ho  [d]ge,  let  thy  breeches  go,  and  speake  and  tell  mee  soone 

What  deyill  ayleth  Gammer  Gurton  &  Tib  her  mayd  to  frowne. 
Hodge.    Tush,  man,  thart  deceyved  :   tys  theyr  dayly  looke  ; 

They  coure   so   over  the  coles,  theyre   eyes   be  bleared   with 

smooke.  20 

Diccon.    Nay,  b^  thejuasse,  I  perfectly  perceived,  as  I  came  hether, 

That  cyther  Tib  and  her  dame  hath  ben  by  the  eares  together, 

Or  els  as  great  a  matter,  as  thou  shalt  shortly  see. 
Hodge.    Now,  iche  beseeche  our  Lord  they  never  better  agree! 
Diccon.    By  Gogs  soule,  there  they  syt  as  still  as  stones  in  the  streite, 

As  though  they  had  ben  taken  with  fairies,  or  els  with  some  il 
sprite.  26 

*  I  am.  The  rustic  dialect  in  the  piece  is  conventional,  but  its  general  peculiarities  are  those 
of  the  southwestern  counties;  icbe  =  I,  reduced  to  cb  in  dam,  cbou/d,  or  cbivotd  (I  would), 
cbivcre,  etc.  The  southwestern  i<  tor  f  is  not  generally  used,  but  occurs  below  in  I'y/ciy, 
in  -vast  (I.  iv.  8  ),  and  in  fathers  (II.  i.  52)  ;  glaye  for  clay  is  probably  not  genuine  dialect. 

2  Misprinted  ivbat. 


2 1  o  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  i 

Hodge.    Gogs  hart  !   I  durst  have  layd  my  cap  to  a  crowne 

Chwould  lerne  of  some  prancome  as  sone  as  ich  came  to  town. 
Diccon.    Why,  Hodge,  art  thou  inspyred  ?  or  dedst  thou  therof  here  ? 
Hodge.    Nay,  hut  ich  saw  such  a  wonder  as  ich  saw  nat  this  seven 
yere.  30 

Tome  Tannkards  cow,  be  Gogs  bones  !  she  set  me  up  her  saile, 
And  flynging  about  his  halfe  aker  l  fysking  with  her  taile, 
As  though  there  had  ben  in  her  ars  a  swarme  of  bees, 
And  chad  not  cryed  "  tphrowh,  hoore,"  shead   lept  out  of  his 

lees. 

Diccon.    Why,   Hodg,  lies  the  connyng  in  Tom   Tankards  cowes 
taile  ?  35 

Hodge.    Well,  ich  chave  hard  some  say  such  tokens  do  not  fayle. 
Bot  ca[n]st  thou  not  tell,2  injjaith,  Diccon,  why  she  frownes, 

or  wher  at  ? 
Hath   no  man   stolne  her  ducks  or  hen[n]es,  or  gelded  Gyb, 

her  cat  ? 

Diccon.    What  devyll  can  I  tell,  man  ?      I  cold  not  have  one  word  ! 
They  gave  no  more  hede  to  my  talk  than  thow  woldst  to  a  lorde. 
Hodge.    Iche  cannot  styll  but  muse,  what  mervaylous  thinge  it  is. 

Chyll  in  and  know  my  selfe  what  matters  are  amys.  42 

Diccon.    Then   fare  well,  Hodge,  a  while,  synce  thou  doest   inward 

hast, 

For  I  will  into  the  good  wyfe  Chats,  to  feele  how  the  ale  doth 
taste. 


The  fyrst  Acte.     The  thyrd  Sceane. 

HODGE.      TYB. 

Hodge.    Cham  agast ;   by  the  masse,  ich  wot  not  what  to  do. 
Chad  nede  blesse  me  well  before  ich  go  them  to. 
Perchaunce  some  felon  sprit  may  haunt  our  house  indeed  ; 
And  then  chwere  but  a  noddy  to  venter  where  cha  no  neede. 

1  H.    prints  '  halse  aker,'  with  the  following  absurd  note  :    "I   believe  we  should  read   balst 
anchor,  or  anker,  as  it  was  anciently  spelt  5   a  naval  phrase."  -  Ed.  1575  //'//. 


sc.  in]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  2 1 1 

Tyb.    Cham  worse  then  mad,  by  the  masse,  to  be  at  this  stave  !       5 

Cham  chyd,  cham  blamd,  and  beaton,  all  thoures  on  the  daye; 

Lamed  and  hongcr-storved,  prycked  up  all  in  jaggcs, 

Havyng  no  patch  to  hyde  my  backe,  save  a  few  rotten  raggcs  ! 
Hodge.  I  say,  Tyb  —  if  thou  be  Tyb,  as  I  trow  sure  thou  bee,— 

What    devyll   make  a   doe    is    this,   betweene   our   dame    and 

thee  ?  i  o 

Tyb.    Gogs  breajje,  Hodg,  thou  had  a  good  turne  thou  wart  not 

here  [this  while]  !  A  iii  b 

It  had  been  better  for  some  of  us  to  have  ben  hence  a  myle ; 

My  gammer  is  so  out  of  course  and  frantyke  all  at  ones, 

That  Cocke,  our  boy,  and  I,  poore  wench,  have  felt  it  on  our 

bones. 

Hodge.    What    is   the    matter  —  say  on,  Tib  —  wherat  she  takcth 
so  on  ?  15 

Tyb.    She  is  undone,  she  sayth,  alas  !   her  joye  and  life  is  gone  ! 

If  shce  here  not  of  some  comfort,  she  is,  fayth  ! 1  but  dead  ; 

Shal  never  come  within  her  lyps  one  inch  of  mcate  ne  bread. 
Hodge.    Byr  Ladie,  cham  not  very  glad  to  see  her  in  this  dumpe. 

Cholde2  a   noble   her  stole  hath  fallen,  &  shee  hath  broke  her 
rumpe.  20 

Tyb.    Nay,  and  that  were  the  worst,  we  wold  not  greatly  care 

For  bursting  of  her  huckle  bone,  or  breaking  of  her  chaire  ; 

But  greatter,  greater,  is  her  grief,  as,  Hodge,  we  shall  all  feele  ! 
Hodge.  Gogs  woundes,  Tyb  !  my  gammer  has  never  lost  her  neele  ? 
Tyb.  Her  neele  ! 

Hodge.  Her  neele !  25 

Tyb.    Her  neele  ! 

By  him  that  made  me,  it  is  true,  Hodge,  I  tell  thee. 
Hodge.    Gogs  sacrament,  I  would  she  had  lost  tharte  out  of  her  bellie  ! 

The  Dcvill,  or  els  his  dame,  they  ought3  her,  sure,  a  shame  ! 

How  a  murryon  came  this  chaunce,  say,  Tib  !  unto  our  dame  ? 

Tyb.    My  gammer  sat  her  downe  on   her  pes,4  and  bad  me  reach 

thy  breeches,  30 

And  by  and  by  (a_vengeance  in  it  !)  or  she  had  take  two  stitches 

1  Printed  aifth.  2  1  hold,  i.e.   'I  wager.'  3  owed. 

4  '  Feis,'  a  hassock  (Rye's  East  Anglian  Glossary,  KnglUh  Dialect  Society). 


2 1 2  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  i 

To  clap  a  clout  upon  thine  ars,  by  chaunce  asyde  she  leares, 
And   Gyb,  our  cat,  in   the   milke  pan  she  spied  over  head  and 

eares. 

"Ah,    hore !    out,   thefe !  "    she   cryed    aloud,   and    swapt    the 

breches  downe.  34 

Up  went  her  staffe,  and  out  leapt  Gyb  at  doors  into  the  towne, 

And  svnce  that  tyme  was  never  wyght  cold  set  their  eies  upon  it. 

.    Gogs  malison  chave  (Cocke  and  I)  bid  twenty  times  light  on  it. 

Hodge.    And   is   not  then   my  breeches  sewid   up,  to   morow  that  I 

shuld  were  ? 

Tyb.    No,  in  faith,  Hodge,  thy  breeches  lie  for  al  this  never  the  nere. 

Hodge^  Now  a  vengeance  light  on  al  the  sort,  that  better  shold  have 

kept  it,  40 

The  cat,  the  house,  and  Tib,  our  maid,  that  better  shold  have 

swept  it ! 
Se  where  she  cometh  crawling  !      Come  on,  in  twenty  devils 

way  ! 
Ye  have  made  a  fayre  daies  worke,  have  you  not  ?  pray  you,  say  ! 

The  fyrst  Acte.     The  iiii.  Sceane. 

GAMMER.      HODGE.      TYB.      COCKE. 

Gammer.    Alas,  Hoge,  alas  !   I  may  well  cursse  and  ban  A  iv 

This  daie,  that  ever  I  saw  it,  with  Gyb  and  the  mylke  pan  ; 
For  these  and  ill  lucke  togather,  as  knoweth  Cocke,  my  boye, 
Have  stacke  away  my  deare  neele,  and  robd  me  of  my  joye, 
My  fayre  long  strayght  neele,  that  was  myne  onely  treasure  ;    5 
The  fyrst  day  of  my  sorow  is,  and  last  end  of  my  pleasure ! 
Hodge.    Might  ha  kept  it  when  ye  had  it  !   but  fooles  will  be  fooles 

styll. 

Lose  that  is  vast  in  your  handes  ye  neede  not  but  ye  will. 
Gammer.    Go  hie  the,  Tib,  and   run   thou,  hoore,  to  thend  here  of 

the  towne  !  * 

Didst    cary   out    dust   in   thy   lap ;    seeke  wher  thou   porest   it 
downe,  10 

1  the  ground  attached  to  the  house.      (Cf.  Sc.  toun. ) 


sc.  mi]  Gammer  Gurtons  Ncdle  2 1 3 

And  as  thou  sawest  me  roking,  in  the  ashes  where  I  morncd, 
So  see  in  all  the  heapc  of  dust  thou  leave  no  straw  unturned. 
Tyb.    That   chal,    Gammer,  swythe    and   tyte,1    and    sone    be    here 

agayne ! 
Gammer.    Tib,  stoope  &  loke  downe  to  the  ground  to  it,  and  take 

some  paine. 

Hodge.    Here  is  a  prety  matter,  to  see  this  gere  how  it  goes  ;          I  5 
By  Gogs  soule,  I  thenk  you  wold  Iocs  your  ars,  and   it   were 

loose ! 
Your  neele  lost,  it   is  pitie  you   shold   lack  care  and  endlesse 

sorow. 
Gogs  deth  !   how  shall  my  breches  be  sewid  ?     Shall  I  go  thus 

to  morow  ? 
Gammer.    Ah   Hodg,  Hodg  !   if  that   ich  cold  find  my  neele,  by  the 

reed, 

Chould  sow  thy  breches,  ich  promise  the,  with  full  good  double 

threed,  20 

And  set  a  patch  on  either  knee  shuld  last  this  monethes  twaine. 

Now  God  and  good  Saint  Sithe2  I  praye  to  send  it  home  againe  ! 

Hodge.    Wherto  served  your  hands  and  eies,  but  this  your  neele  to 

kepe  ? 

What  devill  had  you  els  to  do  ?   ye  kept,  ich  wot,  no  sheepe  ! 
Cham    faine   abrode    to    dyg   and  delve,   in   water,  myre,  and 
claye,  25 

Sossing  and  possing  in  the  durte  styll  from  day  to  daye. 
A  hundred  thinges  that  be  abrode,  cham  set  to  see  them  weele, 
And  four  of  you  syt  idle  at  home,  and  can  not  kcepe  a  neele  ! 
Gammer.    My  neele  !   alas  !   ich  lost   it,   Hodge,  what   time   ich   me 

up  hasted 

To  save  the   milke  set   up   for  the,  which   Gib,  our  cat,  hath 
wasted.  30 

Hodge.   vThe  Devill  he  burst  both  Gib  and  Tib,  with  al  the  rest ! 
Cham  alwayes  sure  of  the  worst  end,  who  ever  have  the  best  ! 
Where  ha  you  ben  ridging  abrode,  since  you  your  neele  lost  ? 
Gammer.    Within   the   house,  and   at  the  dore,  sitting  by  this  same 
post, 

1  with  vigour  and  speed,  promptly.  2  Commonly  supposed  to  mean  St.  Osyth. 


2 1 4  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  i 

Wher   I   was    loking  a  long  howre,  before  these   folks   came 

here ;  35 

But  welaway,  all  was  in  vayne,  my  neele  is  never  the  nere  ! 

Hodge,    Set  me  a  candle,  let  me  seeke,  and  grope  where  ever  it  bee. 

Gogs  hart,  ye  be  so  folish,  ich  thinke,  you  knowe  it  not  when 

you  it  see  ! 

Gammer.    Come  hether,  Cocke ;   what,  Cocke,  I  say  ! 
Cocke.  Howe,  Gammer  ? 

Gammer.  Goe,  hye  the  soone, 

And  grope  behyhd  the  old  brasse  pan,  whych  thing  when  thou 
hast  done,  40 

Ther  shalt  thou  fynd  an  old  shooe,  wherein  if  thou  look  well, 
Thou  shalt  fynd  lyeng  an  inche  of  a  whyte  tallow  candell. 
Lyght  it,  and  bryng  it  tite  away. 

Cocke.  .         That  shalbe  done  anone. 

Gammer.    Nay,  tary,   Hodge,  till  thou   hast  light,  and   then   weele 
seke  ech  one.  45 

Hodge.    Cum   away,  ye   horson  boy,  are  ye  aslepe  ?  ye  must  have  a 

crier  ! 

Cocke.    Ich  cannot  get  the  candel  light :   here  is  almost  no  fier. 
Hodge.    Chil   hold  1  the  a  peny  chil  make  the  come,  if  that  ich  may 

catch  thine  eares  ! 
Art   deffe,  thou   horson   boy  ?      Cocke,  I   say  ;  why  canst  not 

heares  ? 

Gammer.    Beate  hym  not,  Hodge,  but  help  the  boy,  and  come  you 
two  together. 


The  i  Acte.     The  v  Sceane. 

GAMMER.      TYB.      COCKE.      HODGE. 

Gammer.    How  now,  Tib  ?  quycke,  lets  here  what  newes  thou  hast 

brought  hether ! 
Tyb.    Chave  tost  and  tumbled  yender  heap  our  and  over  againe, 

And  winowed  it  through  my  fingers,  as  men  wold  winow  grain  ; 

1  wager,  bet;   compare  note  2,  page  101.  Ed.  1575  held. 


sc.  v]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  2 1 5 

Not  so  much  as  a  hens  turd  hut  in  pieces  I  tare  it, 
Or  what  so  ever  clod  or  clay  I  found,  I  did  not  spare  it,          5 
Lokyng  within  and  eke  without,  to  fvnd  your  neele,  alas  ! 
But  all  in  vaine  and  without  help  !  your  neele  is  where  it  was. 

Gammer.    Alas  my  neele  !  we  shall  never  meete  !   adue,  adue,  for  aye  ! 

Tyb.    Not  so,  Gammer,  we  myght  it  fynd,  if  we  knew  where  it  laye. 

Cocke.    Gogs  crosse,  Gammer,  if  ye  will  laugh,  looke  in  but  at  the 
doore,  10 

And  see  how  Hodg  lieth  tomhling  and  tossing  amids  the  floure, 
Rakyng  there  some  fyre  to  fynd  amonge  the  asshes  dead, 
Where  there  is  not  one  sparke  so  byg  as  a  pyns  head  ; 
At  last  in  a  darke  corner  two  sparkes  he  thought  he  sees, 
Which  were  indede  nought  els  but  Gyb  our  cats  two  eyes.   15 
u  Puffe  !  "  quod  Hodg,  thinking  therby  to  have   fyre  without 

doubt ; 

With  that  Gyb  shut  her  two  eyes,  and  so  the  fyre  was  out ; 
And  by  and  by  them  opened,  even  as  they  were  before ; 
With  that  the  sparkes  appered,  even  as  they  had  done  of  yore ; 
And  even  as  Hodge  blew  the  fire  (as  he  did  thinke),  20 

Gib,  as  she  felt  the  blast,  strayghtway  began  to  wyncke ; 
Tyll  Hodge  fell  of  swering,  as  came  best  to  his  turne, 
The  fier  was  sure  bewicht,  and  therfore  wold  not  burne. 
At  last  Gyb  up  the  stayers,  among  the  old  postes  and  pinnes, 
And    Hodge    he    hied    him    after,    till    broke   were    both    his 
shinnes ;  25 

Cursyng  and  swering  othes  were  never  of  his  makyng, 
That  Gyb  wold  fyre  the  house  if  that  shee  were  not  taken. 

Gammer.    See,  here  is  all  the  thought  that  the  foolysh  urchyn  takcth  ! 
And  Tyb,  me  thinke,  at  his  elbowe  almost  as  mery  maketh. 
This  is  all  the  wyt  ye  have,  when  others  make  their  mone.  30 
Cum  downe,  Hodge,  where  art  thou  ?   and  let  the  cat  alone  ! 

Hodge.    Gogs  harte,  help  and  come  up  !    Gyb  in  her  tayle  hath  fyre, 

And  is  like  to  burne  all,  if  shee  get  a  lytle  hier  ! 

Cum  downe,  quoth  you  ?  nay,  then  you  might  count  me  a  patch.1 

The  house  commeth  downe  on  your  heads,  if  it   take  ons  the 

thatch.  35 

1  a  fool,  jester. 


2i 6  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

Gammer.    It  is  the  cats  eyes,  foole,  that  shyneth  in  the  darke. 

Hodge.    Hath  the  cat,  do  you  thinke,  in  every  eye  a  sparke  ? 

Gammer.    No,  but  they  shyne  as  lyke  fyre  as  ever  man  see. 

Hodge.   By  the  masse,  and  she  burne  all,  yoush  beare  the  blame  for  mee  ! 

Gammer.    Cum  downe  and  helpe  to  seeke  here  our  neele,  that  it  were 

found.  40 

Downe,  Tyb,  on  the  knees,   I   say  !      Downe,  Cocke,  to  the 

ground  ! 

To  God  I  make  avowe,  and  so  to  good  Saint  Anne, 
A  candell  shall  they  have  a  pece,  get  it  where  I  can, 
If  I  may  my  neele  find  in  one  place  or  in  other. 

Hodge.    Now    a    vengeaunce    on    Gyb    light,    on    Gyb   and    Gybs 
mother,  45 

^\nd  all  the  generacyon  of  cats  both  far  and  nere  ! 

Loke  on  this  ground,  horson,  thinks  thou  the  neele  is  here  ? 

Cocke.    By  my  trouth,  Gammer,  me  thought  your  neele  here  I  saw, 
But  when  my  fyngers  toucht  it,  I  felt  it  was  a  straw. 

Tyb.    See,  Hodge,  whats  t[h]ys?   may  it  not  be  within  it?  50 

Hodge.   Breake  it,  foole,  with  thy  hand,  and  see  and  thou  canst  fynde  it. 

Tyb.    Nay,  breake  it  you,  Hodge,  accordyng  to  your  word. 

Hodge.    Gogs  sydes  !    fye  !   it  styncks  ;   it  is  a  cats  tourd  ! 
It  were  well  done  to  make  thee  eate  it,  by  the  masse  ! 

Gammer.    This   matter  amendeth  not ;    my   neele   is   still   where   it 
wasse.  55 

Our  candle  is  at  an  ende,  let  us  all  in  quight, 
And  come  another  tyme,  when  we  have  more  lyght. 


The  Second  Acte. 
First  a  Song.1 

Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 

Booth  foote  and  hande  go  colde ; 

But  bellye,  God  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe, 

Whether  it  be  newe  or  olde. 

1  For  the  older  and  better  form  of  this  song,  see  Appendix. 


sc.  i]  Lrammer  Lrurtons  JVeale  217 

I  can  not  eate  but  lytle  meate, 

My  stomacke  is  not  good ; 

But  sure  I  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  wearcs  a  hood. 

Thoughe  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothinge  a  coldc  ; 

I  stuftc  my  skyn  so  full  within 

Ot  jolv  good  ale  and  olde. 

Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

I  love  no  rost  but  a  nut  browne  toste 
And  a  crab  layde  in  the  tyre.1 
A  lytlc  bread  shall  do  me  stead  : 
Much  breade  I  not  desyre. 
No  froste  nor  snow,  no  winde,  I  trowc, 
Can  hurte  mee  if  I  wolde  ; 
I  am  so  wrapt,  and  throwly  lapt 
Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  etc. 

And  Tyb  my  wyfe,  that  as  her  lyfe 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  ofte  drynkes  shee  tyll  ye  may  see 
The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke  ; 
Then  dooth  she  trowle  to  mee  the  bowle 
Even  as  a  mault  Avorme  shuld  ; 
And  sayth,  sweete  hart,  I  tooke  my  part 
Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  etc. 

Now  let  them  drynke  till  they  nod  and  winke, 
Even  as  good  felowes  shouldc  doe ; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 
Good  ale  doth  bringe  men  to  ; 

1  A  roasted  crab-apple  was  placed  in  a  bowl  of"  ale  to  give  it  a  flavour  and  take  off  the  chill. 
Compare  Midsummer  Nigbt* s  Victim,  n.  i.  4S,  and  Nashe,  Summer^ s  Last  IVill  and  Testa- 
ment :  — 

Sitting  in  a  corner  turning  crabs, 

Or  coughing  o'er  a  warmed  pot  of  ale. 


2 1 8  (jammer  (Burtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

And  all  poore  soules  that  have  scowred  boules, 
Or  have  them  Justly  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyves  of  them  arid  theyr  wyves, 
Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  etc. 


[The  Second  Acte.]      The  Fyrst  Sceane. 

DICCON.      HODGE. 

Diccon.    Well  done,  by  Gogs  malt !   well  songe  and  well  sayde  ! 
Come  on,  mother  Cnat,  as  thou  art  true  mayde, 
One  fresh  pot  of  ale  lets  see,  to  make  an  ende 
Agaynst  this  colde  wether  my  naked  armes  to  defende  ! 
This  gere  it  warms  the  soule  !   Now,  wind,  blow  on  the  worst !  5 
And  let  us  drink  and  swill  till  that  our  bellies  burste  ! 
Now  were  he  a  wise  man  by  cunnynge  could  defyne 
Which  way  my  journey  lyeth,  or  where  Dyccon  will  dyne  ! 
But  one  good  turne  I  have  :   be  it  by  nyght  or  daye, 
South,  east,  north  or  west,  I  am  never  out  of  my  waye  !         10 

Hodge.    Chym  goodly  rewarded,  cham  I  not,  do  you  thyncke  ? 
Chad  a  goodly  dynner  for  all  my  sweate  and  swyncke  ! 
Neyther  butter,  cheese,  mylke,  onyons,  fleshe,  nor  fyshe, 
Save  this  poor  pece  of  barly  bread  :   tis  a  pleasant  costly  dishe! 

Diccon.    Haile,  fellow  Hodge,  and  well 1  to  fare  with  thy  meat,  if 
thou  have  any  :  15 

But   by   thy   words,   as   I   them   smclled,  thy  daintrels  be   not 
manye. 

Hodge.    Daintrels,  Diccon  ?      Gogs  soule,  man,  save  this  piece  of 

dry  horsbread, 
Cha  byt  no  byt   this  lyvelonge  daic,   no  crome  come   in   my 

head  : 

My  gutts  they  yawle-crawle,  and  all  my  belly  rumbleth  ; 
The  puddynges2  cannot   lye  still,  each   one  over  other  tum- 
bleth.  20 

1  Ed.  1575  will.  a  entrails. 


sc.  i]  Gammer  G it r tons  Nedle  219 

Bv  Gogs  hartc,  cham  so  vexte,  and  in  my  belly  pende, 
Chould  one  pecce  were  at  the  spittlehouse,  another  at  the  cas- 

telle  ende ! 

Diccon.    Why,  Hodge,  was  there  none  at  home  thy  dinner  for  to  set  ? 
Hodge.    Gogs  !  bread,  Diccon,  ich  came  to  late,  was  nothing  there 

to  get ! 
GibN^a  fowle  feind  might  on  her  light!)  lickt  the   milke  pan 

so  clene,  25 

See,  Diccon,  twas  not   so  well   washt   this  seven  yere,  as  ich 

wene  ! 
\     A  pestilence  light  on  all   ill   lucke  !    chad   thought,  yet   for  all 

thvs 
Of  a  morsell  of  bacon   behynde  the  dore  at  worst  shuld  not 

misse  : 

But  when  ich  sought  a  slyp  to  cut,  as  ich  was  wont  to  do, 
Gogs  soule,  Diccon  !    Gyb,  our  cat,  had  eate  the  bacon  to  !    30 

(  Which  bacon  Diccon  stole,  as  is  declared  before. ) 

Diccon.    Ill   luck,  quod  he  !    mary,   swere   it,   Hodge  !   this   day,  the 

trueth  to  tel, 

Thou  rose  not  on  thy  ryght  syde,  or  else  blest  thee  not  wel. 
Thy  milk  slopt  up  !   thy  bacon  filtched  !   that  was  to  bad  luck, 

Hodg ! 
Hodge.    Nay,  nay,  ther  was  a  fowler  fault,  my  Gammer  ga  me  the 

dodge  ;  '2 

Seest   not   how   cham   rent   and   torn,  my  heels,  my  knees,  and 
my  breech  ?  35 

Chad  thought,  as  ich  sat  by  the  fire,  help  here  and  there  a  stitch  : 
But  there  ich  was  powpt  3  indeede. 
Diccon.  Whv,  Hodge  ? 

Hodge.  Bootes  not,  man,  to  tell. 

Cham  so  drest  amongst  a  sorte  of  fooles,  chad  better  be  in  hell. 
My  gammer  (cham  ashamed  to  say),  by  God,  served  me  not 

weelc. 

Diccon.    How  so,  Hodge  ? 
Hodge.  Has  she  not  gone,  trowest  now,  and  lost  her  neele  ? 

1  Ed.   1575  Gr.Jgs.  -'  K«i.   15-5  do^de.  3  Jecrived. 


220  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

Diccon.    Her  eele,  Hodge  ?    Who  fysht  of  late  ?    That  was  a  dainty 
dysh !  41 

Hodge.    Tush,  tush,  her  neele,  her  neele,  her  neele,  man  !   tis  nei- 
ther flesh  nor  fysh  ; 

A  lytle  thing  with  an  hole  in  the  end,  as  bright  as  any  syller, 
Small,  longe,  sharpe  at  the  poynt,  and  straight  as  any  pyller. 
Diccon.    I  know  not  what  a  devil  thou  meenst,  thou  bringst  me  more 
in  doubt.  45 

Hodge.    Knowst   not   with   what   Tom    Tailers   man   sits   broching 

throughe  a  clout  ? 

A  neele,  a  neele,  a  neele  !   my  gammer's  neele  is  gone. 
Diccon.    Her  neele,  Hodge  ?   now  I  smel  thee  !   that  was  a  chaunce 

alone  ! 
r3v _the  masse,  thou  hast  a  shamefull  losse,  and  it  wer  but  for 

thy  breches. 

Hodge.    Gogs  soule,  man,  chould  give  a  crown  chad   it  but  three 

stitches.  50 

Diccon.    How  sayest  thou,  Hodge  ?    What  shuld  he  have,  again  thy 

nedle  got  ? 

Hodge.    Bern  vathers  soule,  and  chad  it,  chould  give  him  a  new  grot. 
Diccon.    Canst  thou  keep  counsaile  in  this  case  ? 
Hodge.  Else  chwold  my  tonge  T  were  out. 

Diccon.    Do  than  but  then  by  my  advise,  and  I  will  fetch  it  without 

doubt. 

Hodge.    Chyll  runne,  chyll  ryde,  chyll  dygge,  chyl  delve,  chill  toyle, 

chill  trudge,  shalt  see;  55 

Chill  hold,  chil  drawe,  chil  pull,  chill  pynche,  chill  kneele  on 

my  bare  knee  ; 
Chill  scrape,  chill  scratche,  chill  syfte,  chill  seeke,  chill  bowe, 

chill  bende,  chill  sweate, 
Chill  stoop,  chil  stur,  chil  cap,  chil  knele,  chil  crepe  on  hands 

and  fecte ; 

Chill  be  thy  bondman,  Diccon,  ich  sweare  by  sunne  and  moone. 
And  channot  sumwhat  to  stop  this  gap,  cham  utterly  undone  !  60 

(  Pointing  behind  to  bis  tome  breeches. ) 

1  Ed.   1575  tbonge. 


sc.  i]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  221 

Diccon.    Why,  is  there  any  special  cause  thou  takest  hereat  such 

sorow  ? 

Hodge.    Kirstian  Clack,  Tom  Simpsons  maid,  by  the  masse,  corns 
hether  to  morow, 

Cham  not  able  to  say,  betweene  us  what  may  hap; 

She  smyled  on  me  the  last  Sunday,  when  ich  put  of  my  cap. 
Ducon.    Well,  Hodge,  this  is  a  matter  of  weight,  and  must  be  kept 
close,  65 

It  might  els  turne  to  both  our  costes,  as  the  world  now  gose. 

Shalt  sware  to  be  no  blab,  Hodge ! 

Hodge.  Chyll,  Diccon. 

Diccon.  Then  go  to, 

Lay  thine  hand  here ;  say  after  me  as  thou  shal  here  me  do. 

Haste  no  booke  ? 

Hodge.  Cha  no  booke,  I ! 

Diccon.  Then  needes  must  force  us  both, 

Upon  my  breech  to  lay  thine  hand,  and  there  to  take  thine 

othe. 
Hodge.    I,  Hodge,  breechelesse  71 

Sweare  to  Diccon,  rechelesse, 

By  the  crosse  that  I  shall  kysse, 

To  keep  his  counsaile  close, 

And  alwayes  me  to  dispose  75 

To  worke  that  his  pleasure  is.     (Here  he  kysseth  DICCONS  breech.) 
Diccon.    Now,  Hodge,  see  thou  take  heede, 

And  do  as  I  thee  byd ; 

For  so  I  judge  it  meete ; 

This  nedle  again  to  win,  80 

There  is  no  shift  therin 

But  conjure  up  a  spreete. 

Hodge.    What,  the  great  deviU,  Diccon,  I  saye  ? 
Diccon.    Yea,  in  good  faith,  that  is  the  waye. 

Fet  with  some  prety  charme.  85 

Hodge.    Soft,  Diccon,  be  not  to  hasty  yet, 

By  the  masse,  for  ich  begyn  to  sweat  ' 

Cham  afrayde  of  some  1  harme. 

1  Ed.  i  575  syme. 


222  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  n 

Diccon.    Come  hether,  then,  and  sturre  the  nat 

One  inche  out  of  this  cyrcle  plat,  90 

But  stande  as  I  thee  teache. 

Hodge.    And  shall  ich  be  here  safe  from  theyr  clawes  ? 
Diccon.    The  mayster  devill  with  his  longe  pawes 

Here  to  the  can  not  reache. 

Now  will  I  settle  me  to  this  geare.  95 

Hodge.    I  saye,  Diccon,  heare  me,  heare  ! 

Go  softely  to  thys  matter ! 

Diccon.    What  devyll,  man  ?   art  afraide  of  nought  ? 
Hodge.    Canst  not  tarrye  a  lytle  thought 

Tyll  ich  make  a  curtesie  of  water?  100 

Diccon.    Stand  still  to  it ;   why  shuldest  thou  feare  hym  ? 
Hodge.    Gogs  sydes,  Diccon,  me  thinke  ich  heare  him  ! 

And  tarrye,  chal  mare  all ! 

Diccon.    The  matter  is  no  worse  than  I  tolde  it. 
Hodge.    By  the  masse,  cham  able  no  longer  to  holde  it !  105 

To  bad  !   iche  must  beray  the  hall ! 
Diccon.    Stand  to  it,  Hodge  !   sture  not,  you  horson  ! 

What  devyll,  be  thine  ars  strynges  brusten  ? 
Thyselfe  a  while  but  staye, 

The  devill  (I  smell  hym)  will  be  here  anone.  no 

Hodge.      Hold  him  fast,  Diccon,  cham  gone!  cham  gone! 
Chyll  not  be  at  that  fraye  ! 


The  ii  Acte.     The  ii  Sceane. 

DICCON.      CHAT. 

Diccon.    Fy,  shytten  knave,  and  out  upon  thee ! 
Above  all  other  loutes,  fye  on  thee  ! 
Is  not  here  a  clenly  prancke  ? 
But  thy  matter  was  no  better, 
Nor  thy  presence  here  no  sweter, 
To  flye  I  can  the  thanke.1 

1  «ive  thee  thanks. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurto?is  Necl/e  223 

Here  is  a  matter  worthy  glosynge, 

Of  Gammer  Gurton  nedle  losynge, 

And  a  foule  peece  of  warke  ! 

A  man  I  thyncke  myght  make  a  playe,  IO 

And  nede  no  worde  to  this  they  saye, 

Being  but  halfe  a  clarke. 

Softe,  let  me  alone  !   I  will  take  the  charge 

This  matter  further  to  enlarge 

Within  a  tyme  shorte.  15 

If  ye  will  marke  my  toyes,  and  note, 

I  will  geve  ye  leave  to  cut  my  throte 

If  I  make  not  good  sporte. 

Dame  Chat,  I  say,  where  be  ye  ?  within  ? 

Chat.    Who  have  we  there  maketh  such  a  din  ?  2O 

Diccon.    Here  is  a  good  fellow,  maketh  no  great  daunger. 
Chat.    What,  Diccon  ?      Come  nere,  ye  be  no  straunger. 

We  be  fast  set  at  trumpe,  man,  hard  by  the  fyre ; 

Thou  shalt  set  on  the  king,  if  thou  come  a  little  nyer. 
Diccon.    Nay,  nay,  there  is  no  tarying;   I  must  be  gone  againe.     25 

But  first  for  you  in  councel  I  have  a  word  or  twain. 
Chat.    Come  hether,  Dol !    Dol,  sit  clowne  and  play  this  game, 

And  as  thou  sawest  me  do,  see  thou  do  even  the  same. 

There  is  five   trumps   beside  the  queene,  the  hindmost  thou 
shalt  finde  her. 

Take   hede   of   Sim    Glovers    wife,   she    hath    an    eie    behind 
her !  30 

Now,  Diccon,  say  your  will. 
Diccon.  Nay,  softe  a  little  yet ; 

I  wold  not  tel  it  my  sister,  the  matter  is  so  great. 

There  I  wil  have  you  sweare  by  our  dere  Lady  of  Bullaine, 

Saint  Dunstone,  and  Saint  Donnyke,  with  the  three  kings  of 
Kullaine, 

That  ye  shal  keepe  it  secret. 
Chat.  Gogs  bread!  that  will  I  doo  !   35 

As  secret  as  mine  owne  thought,  by  God  and  the  devil  two  ! 


224  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

Diccon.    Here  is  Gammer  Gurton,  your  neighbour,  a  sad  and  hevy 

wight : 

Her  goodly  faire  red  cock  at  home  was  stole  this  last  night. 
Chat.    Gogs  soul !   her  cock  with  the  yelow  legs,  that  nightly  crowed 

so  just  ? 

Diccon.    That  cock  is  stollen. 

Chat.  What,  was  he  fet  out  of  the  hens  ruste  ?      40 

Diccon.    I   can   not   tel  where  the  devil  he  was   kept,  under   key  or 

locke ; 
But  Tib  hath  tykled  in  Gammers  eare,  that  you  shoulde  steale 

the  cocke. 

Chat.    Have  I,  stronge  hoore  ?  by  bread  and  sake  !  — 
Diccon.  What,  softe,  I  say,  be  styl ! 

Say  not  one  word  for  all  this  geare. 

Chat.  By  the  masse,  that  I  wyl  ! 

I  wil  have  the  yong  hore  by  the  head,  &  the  old  trot  by  the 

throte.  45 

Diccon.    Not  one  word,  Dame  Chat,  I  say  ;   not  one  word,  for  my 

cote  ! 
Chat.    Shall  such  a  begars  brawle  1  as  that,  thinkest  thou,  make  me 

a  theefe  ? 
The  pocks  light  on   her  hores  sydes,  a  pestlence  and  a   mis- 

cheefe  ! 

Come  out,  thou  hungry  nedy  bytche  !    O  that  my  nails  be  short  ! 
Diccon.    Gogs   bred,   woman,   hold    your   peace !    this   gere    wil    els 
passe  sport !  50 

I  wold  not  for  an  hundred  pound  this  mater  shuld  be  knowen, 
That  I  am  auctour  of  this  talc,  or  have  abrode  it  blowen  ! 
Did  ye  not  sweare  ye  wold  be  ruled,  before  the  tale  I  tolde  ? 
I  said  ye  must  all  secret  kcepe,  and  ye  said  sure  ye  \rolcle. 
Chat.    Wolde  you  suffer,  your  selfe,  Diccon,  such  a  sort   to   revile 

y°ui  55 

With  slaunderous  words  to  blot  your  name,  and  so  to  defile  you  ? 

Diccon.    No,  Goodwife  Chat,  I  wold  be  loth  such  drabs  shulde  blot 

my  name  ; 
But  yet  ye  must  so  order  all  that  Diccon  bcare  no  blame. 

1  offspring,  brat. 


sc.  in]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  225 

Chat.    Go  to,  then,  what  is  your  rede  ?  say  on  your  minde,  ye  shall 
mee  rule  herein. 

Diccon.    Godamercye  to  Dame  Chat !      In  faith  thou  must  the  gere 
begin.  60 

It  is  twenty  pound  to  a  goose  turd,  my  gammer  will  not  tary, 
But  hethcr  ward  she  conies  as  fast  as  her  legs  can  her  cary, 
To  brawle  with  you  about  her  cocke  ;   for  wel  I  hard  Tib  say 
The  Cocke  was  rosted  in  your  house  to  brea[k]fast  yesterday  ; 
And  when  ye  had  the  carcas  eaten,  the  fethers  ye  out  flunge,  65 
And  Doll,  your  maid,  the  legs  she  hid  a  foote  depe  in  the  dunge. 

Chat.    Ohj^racyous  God  !   my  harte  it 1  burstes  ! 

Diccon.  Well,  rule  your  selfe  a  space  ; 

And  Gammer  Gurton  when  she  commeth  anon  into  thys  place, 
Then  to  the  queane,  lets  see,  tell  her  your  mynd  and  spare 

not. 
So  shall  Diccon  blamelesse  bee ;  and  then,  go  to,  I  care  not !  70 

Chat.    Then,  hoore,  beware  her  throte  !      I  can  abide  no  longer. 
In  faith,  old  witch,  it  shalbe  scene  which  of  us  two  be  stronger  ! 
And,  Diccon,  but  at  your  request,  I  wold  not  stay  one  howre. 

Diccon.    Well,  keepe  it  till  she  be  here,  and  then  out  let  it  powre  ! 
In  the  meane  while  get  you  in,  and  make  no  wordes  of  this.  75 
More  of  this  matter  within  this  howre  to   here  you   shall   not 

misse, 

Because  I  knew  you  are  my  freind,  hide  it  I  cold  not,  doubtles. 
Ye  know  your  harm,  see  ye  be  wise  about  your  owne  busines  ! 
So  fare  ye  well.2 

Chat.  Nay,  soft,  Diccon,  and  drynke  !     What,  Doll,  I  say  ! 

Bringe   here   a   cup    of  the   best   ale ;    lets   see,   come   quicly 

a  waye  !  80 

The  ii  Acte.     The  iii  Sceane.  c 

HODGE.      DICCON. 

Diccon.    Ye  see,  masters,  that  one  end  tapt  of  this  my  short  devise  ! 
Now  must  we  broche  thot[h]er  to,  before  the  smoke  arise  ; 

1  Ed.  1575  'is*;   the  reading  adopted  seems  better  than  ii  hut-fte.        -  Ed.   i5"5    will. 


226  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

And  by  the  time  they  have  a  while  run,  I  trust  ye   need  not 

crave  it. 
But  loke,  what  lieth  in  both  their  harts,  ye  ar  like,  sure,  to 

have  it. 

Hodge.    Yea,  Gogs  soule,  art  alive  yet  ?      What,  Diccon,  dare  ich 

come  ?  5 

Diccon.    A  man  is  wel  hied  to  trust  to  thee ;   I  wil  say  nothing  but 

mum; 

But  and  ye  come  any  nearer,  I  pray  you  see  all  be  sweete  ! 
Hodge.    Tush,  man,  is  Gammers   neele  found  ?   that  chould  gladly 

weete. 
Diccon.    She  may  thanke  thee  it  is  not  found,  for  if  thou  had  kept 

thy  standing, 

The  devil  he  wold  have  fet  it  out,  even,  Hodge,  at  thy  com- 

maunding.  10 

Hodge.    Gogs  hart,  and  cold  he  tel  nothing  wher  the  neele  might  be 

found  ? 

Diccon.    Ye  folysh  dolt,  ye  were  to  seek,  ear  we  had  got  our  ground  ; 

Therefore  his  tale  so  doubtfull  was  that  I  cold  not  perceive  it. 

Hodge.    Then  ich  se  wel  somthing  was  said,  chope  *  one  day  yet  to 

have  it. 

But  Diccon,  Diccon,  did  not  the  devill  cry  "ho,  ho,  ho  "  ?  15 
Diccon.    If  thou    hadst    taryed   where   thou    stoodst,   thou    woldest 

have  said  so  ! 
Hodge.    Durst  swere  of  a  boke,  chard   him  rore,  streight  after  ich 

was  gon. 
But  tel  me,   Diccon,  what   said    the   knave  ?   let   me   here   it 

anon. 
Diccon.    The  horson  talked  to  mee,  I  know  not  well  of  what. 

One  whyle  his  tonge  it  ran  and  paltered  of  a  cat,  20 

Another  whyle  he  stamered  styll  uppon  a  Rat ; 
Last  of  all,  there  was  nothing  but  every  word,  Chat,  Chat ; 
But  this  I  well  perceyved  before  I  wolde  him  rid, 
Betweene  Chat,  and  the  Rat,  and  the  cat,  the  nedle  is  hyd. 
Now  wether  Gyb,  our  cat,  have  eate  it  in  her  ma  we,  25 

Or  Doctor  Rat,  our  curat,  have  found  it  in  the  straw, 

1  I  hope. 


sc.  mi]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  227 

Or  this  Dame  Chat,  your  neighbour,  have  stollen  it,  God  hee 

knoweth  ! 
But  by  the  morow  at  this  time,  we  shal  learn  how  the  matter 

goeth. 
Hodge.    Canst  not  learn  tonight,  man  ?  seest  not  what  is  here  ? 

(Pointing  behind  to  bis  tome  breeches.} 

Diccon.    Tys  not  possyble  to  make  it  sooner  appere.  30 

Hodge.    Alas,  Diccon,  then  chave  no  shyft,  but  —  least  ich  tary  to 

longe  — 

Hye  me  to  Sym  Glovers  shop,  theare  to  seeke  for  a  thonge, 
Therwith  this  breech  to  tatche  and  tye  as  ich  may. 
Diccon.    To  morow,  Hodg,  if  we  chaunce  to  meete,  shalt  see  what 
I  will  say. 

The  ii  Acte.     The  iiii  Sceane. 

DICCON.      GAMMER. 

Diccon.    Now  this  gere  must  forward  goe,  for  here  my  gammer  com- 

meth. 

Be  still  a  while  and  say  nothing ;   make  here  a  little  romth.1 
Gammer.    Good  Lord,  shall  never  be  my  lucke  my  neele  agayne  to 

spye  ? 

Alas,  the  whyle !  tys  past  my  helpe,  where  tis  still  it  must  lye  ! 

Diccon.    Now,  Jesus  !    Gammer  Gurton,  what  driveth  you   to  this 

sadnes  ?  5 

I  feare  me,  by  my  conscience,  you  will  sure  fall  to  madnes. 

Gammer.    Who  is  that  ?      What,  Diccon  ?   cham  lost,  man  !   fye,  fye  ! 

Diccon.    Mary,  fy  on  them  that  be  worthy  !   but  what  shuld  be  your 

troble  ? 

Gammer.  Alas  !   the  more  ich  thinke  on  it,  my  sorow  it  waxeth  doble. 

My  goodly  tossing2  sporyars  3  neele  chave  lost  ich  wot   not 

where.  10 

Diccon.    Your  neele  ?   whan  ? 

Gammer.  My  neele,  alas  !   ich  myght  full  ill  it  spare, 

1  room.  2  first-rate.  s  spurrier's,  harness-maker's. 


228  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  n 

As  God  him  selfe  he  knoweth,  nere  one  besyde  chave. 
Diccon.    If  this  be  all,  good  Gammer,  I  warrant  you  all  is  save. 
Gammer.    Why,   know  you    any   tydings   which    way   my    neele   is 

gone  ? 

Diccon.    Yea,  that  I  do  doubtlesse,  as  ye  shall  here  anone.  15 

A  see  a  thing  this  matter  toucheth,  within  these  twenty  howres, 
Even  at  this  gate,  before  my  face,  by  a  neyghbour  of  yours. 
She  stooped  me  downe,  and  up  she  toke  a  nedle  or  a  pyn. 
I  durst  be  sworne  it  was  even  yours,  by  all  my  mothers  kyn. 
Gammer.    It  was  my  neele,  Diccon,  ich  wot ;   for  here,  even  by  this 
poste,  20 

Ich  sat,  what  time  as  ich  up  starte,  and  so  my  neele  it  loste. 
Who  was  it,  leive  1  son  ?   speke,  ich  pray  the,  and  quickly  tell 

me  that ! 
Diccon.    A  suttle  queane  as  any  in  thys  towne,  your  neyghboure 

here,  Dame  Chat. 
Gammer.    Dame  Chat,  Diccon  ?      Let  me  be  gone,  chil  thyther  in 

post  haste. 

Diccon.    Take    my  councell   yet   or   ye  go,   for  feare  ye  walke  in 
wast.  25 

It  is  a  murrion  crafty  drab,  and  froward  to  be  pleased  ; 
And  ye  take  not  the  better  way,  our  nedle  yet  ye  lose2  it : 
For  when  she  tooke  it  up,  even  here  before  your  doores, 
"  What,  soft,  Dame  Chat  "  (quoth  I),  "  that  same  is  none  of 

yours." 

"  Avant,"  quoth  she,  "  syr  knave  !   what  pratest  thou  of  that  I 

fynd  ?  30 

I  wold  thou   hast  kist  me  I  wot  whear ;  "   she  ment,  I   know, 

behind  ; 

And  home  she  went  as  brag  as  it  had  ben  a  bodelouce, 
And  I  after,  as  bold  as  it  had  ben  the  goodman  of  the  house. 
But  there  and  ye  had  hard  her,  how  she  began  to  scolde  ! 
The  tonge  it  went  on  patins,  by  hym  that  Judas  solde  !          35 
Ech  other  worde  I  was  a  knave,  and  you  a  hore  of  hores, 
Because   I   spake   in    your   bchalfe,  and    sayde    the  neele    was 
yours. 

1  dear.  2  Read  'lese,'  for  the  rime. 


sc.  v]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  229 

Gammer.    Gogs  bread,  and  thinks  that  that  callet  thus  to  kcpe  my 

neele  me  fro  ? 
Diccon.    Let  her  alone,  and  she  minds  non  other  but  even  to  dresse 

you  so. 
Gammer.    By  the  masse,  chil  rather  spend  the  cote  that  is  on  my 

backe !  40 

Thinks  the  false  quean  by  such  a  slygh[t]  that  chill  my  neele 

lacke  ? 
Diccon.    Slepe 1  not  you  [r]    gere,  I  counsell  you,  but  of  this  take 

good  hede : 
Let   not   be  knowen    I    told  you   of  it,   how  well   soever  ye 

spede. 
Gammer.    Chil  in,   Diccon,  a  cleene  aperne  to  take  and  set  before 

me; 
And  ich  may  my  neele  once  see,  chil,  sure,  remember  the !  45 


The  ii  Acte.     The  v  Sceane. 

DICCON. 

Diccon.    Here  will  the  sporte  begin  ;   if  these  two  once  may  meete, 
Their  chere,  durst  lay  money,  will  prove  scarsly  sweete. 
My  gammer,  sure,  entends  to  be  uppon  her  bones 
With  staves,  or  with  clubs,  or  els  with  coble  stones. 
Dame  Chat,  on  the  other  syde,  if  she  be  far  behynde  5 

I  am  right  far  deceived  ;  she  is  geven  to  it  of  kynde.2 
He  that  may  tarry  by  it  awhyle,  and  that  but  shorte, 
I  warrant  hym,  trust  to  it,  he  shall  see  all  the  sporte. 
Into  the  towne  will  I,  my  frendes  to  vysit  there, 
And  hether  straight  againe  to  see  them!  of  this  gere.  10 

In   the   meane  time,  felowcs,  pype  upp  ;  your  fiddles,  I   saie, 

take  them, 
And  let  your  freyndes  here  such  mirth  as  ye  can  make  them. 

1  slip,  neglect.      Perhaps  we  should  read  'yon'  for  'youfrl,1 

2  by  nature. 


230  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle         [ACT. 


The  ili.  Acte.     The  i  Sceane. 

HODGE. 

Hodge.    Sym  Glover,  yet  gramercy  !   cham  meetlye  well  sped  now, 
Thart  even  as  good  a  felow  as  ever  kyste  a  cowe  ! 
Here  is  a  thonge  1  in  dede,  by  the  masse,  though  ich  spcake  it; 
Tom  Tankards  great  bald  curtal,  I  thinke,  could  not  breake  it  ! 
And  when  he  spyed  my  neede  to  be  so  straight  and  hard,       Cii 
Hays  lent  me  here  his  naull,2  to  set  the  gyb  forward,3  6 

As  for  my  gammers  neele,  thejtyenge  feynd  go  weete  ! 
Chill  not  now  go  to  the  doore  againe  with  it  to  meete. 
Chould  make  shyfte  good  inough  and  chad  a  candels  ende  ; 
The  cheefe  hole  in  my  breeche  with  these  two  chil  amende.    IO 


The  iii.  Acte.     The  ii  Sceane. 
GAMMER.      HODGE. 

Gammer.    Now  Hodge,  mayst  nowe  be  glade,  cha  newes  to  tell  thee  ; 

Ich  knowe  who  hais  my  neele  ;   ich  trust  soone  shalt  it  see. 
Hodge.    The  devyll   thou  does  !   hast  hard,  Gammer,   in   deede,  or 

doest  but  jest  ? 

Gammer.    Tys  as  true  as  steele,  Hodge. 

Hodge.  Why,  knowest  well  where  dydst  leese  it  ? 

Gammer.    Ich   know  who   found   it,  and  tooke  it  up  !   shalt  see  or  it 

be  longe.  5 

Hodge.    Gods  mother  dere  !   if  that   be  true,  farwel  both   naule  an 

thong  ! 
But  who  hais  it,  Gammer,  say  on  ;  chould   faine  here   it  dis- 

closed. 
Gammer.    That   false  fixen,  that  same  Dame  Chat,  that  counts  her 

selfe  so   honest. 

1  Ed.    1575  has  thynge.  2  awl. 

3  Apparently  a  proverbial  phrase,  meaning  'to  expedite  matters.' 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  231 

Hodge.    Who  toldc  you  so  ? 

Gammer.          That  same  did  Diccon  the  bedlam,  which  saw  it  done. 

Hodge.    Diccon?   it   is  a  vengcable   knave,  Gammer,  tis  a  bonable1 

horson,  10 

Can  do  mo  things  then  that,  els  chain  deceyved  evill : 

By  jhe    masse,    ich    saw    him   of  late   cal   up  a   great   blacke 

devill  ! 

(),  the  knave  cryed  "  ho,  ho  !  "   he  roared  and  he  thundred, 
And  yead  bcne  here,  cham  sure  yould  murrenly  ha  wondred. 
Gammer.    Was     not     thou    afraidc,     Hodge    to    see    him    in    this 
place  ?  15 

Hodge.    No,  and  chad  come  to  me,  chould   have  laid   him  on  the 

face, 

Chould  have,  promised  him  ! 

Gammer.  But,  Hodge,  had  he  no  homes  to  pushe  ? 

Hodge.    As  long  as  your  two  armes.      Saw  ye  never  Fryer  Rushe2 
Painted  on  a  cloth,  with  a  side  long  cowes  tayle, 
And  crooked  cloven  feete,  and  many  a  hoked  nayle  ?  20 

For   al    the   world,    if  I    shuld  judg,   chould   recken    him    his 

brother. 
Lokc,   even   what    face    Frier   Rush   had,   the   devil   had   such 

another. 

Gammer.    Now  Jesus  mercy,  Hodg  !   did  Diccon  in  him  bring  ? 
Hodge.    Nay  Gammer,  here  me  speke,  chil  tel  you  a  greater  thing; 
The   devil   (when    Diccon   had   him,   ich   hard   him   wondrous 
wcel)  25 

Sayd    plainly    here    before    us,    that    Dame    Chat    had    your 

neele. 
G[am~\mer.    Then  let  us  go,  and  aske  her  wherfore  she  minds  to 

kepe  it ; 

Seing  we  know  so  much,  tware  a  madnes  now  to  slepe  it. 
Hodge.    Go  to   her,  Gammer ;   see  ye   not  where  she  stands  in  her 

doores  ? 
Byd  her  geve  you  the  neele,  tys  none  of  hers  but  yours.         30 

1  abominable. 

•  '  Friar  Rush,'  the  chief  personage  in  a   popular  story  translated  from  the  German,  which 
relates  the  adventures  of  a  devil  in  the  disguise  of  a  friar. 


232  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle         [ACT.  m 

The  iii.  Acte.     The  iii.  Sceane. 

GAMMER.      CHAT.      HODGE. 

Gammer.    Dame  Chat,  cholde   praye  the  fair,  let  me  have  that   is 

mine  ! 

Chil  not  this  twenty  yeres  take  one  fart  that  is  thyne  ; 
Therefore  give  me  mine  owne,  and  let  me  live  besyde  the. 
Chat.    Why  art  thou  crept  from  home  hether,  to  mine  own  doores 

to  chide  me  ? 

Hence,  doting  drab,  avaunt,  or  I  shall  set  the  further!  5 

Intends  thou  and  that  knave  mee  in  my  house  to  murther  ? 
Gammer.    Tush,  gape  not  so  on 1  me,  woman  !    shalt  not  yet  eate 

mee  ! 

Nor  all  the  frends  thou  hast  in  this  shall  not  intreate  mee  ! 
Mine  owne  goods  I  will  have,  and  aske  the  no2  beleve,3 
What,  woman  !   pore  folks   must  have  right,  though  the  thing 
you  aggreve.  10 

Chat.    Give   thee  thy  right,  and   hang  the  up,  with   al  thy  baggers 

broode ! 

What,  wilt  thou  make  me  a  theefe,  and  say  I  stole  thy  good  ? 
Gammer.    Chil  say  nothing,  ich^warrant  thee,  but  that  ich  can  prove 

it  well. 

Thou  fet  my  good  even  from  my  doore,  cham  able  this  to  tel  ! 

Chat.    Dyd  I,  olde  witche,  steale  oft4  was  thine?   how  should  that 

thing  be  knowen  ?  i  5 

Gammer.    Ich   can   no  tel ;  but  up  thou  tokest  it  as  though  it  had 

ben  thine  owne, 

Chat.    Mary,  fy  on  thee,  thou  old  gyb,  with  al  my  very  hart ! 
Gammer.    Nay,  fy  on  thee,  thou  rampe,  thou  ryg,  with  al  that  take 

thy  parte  ! 
Chat,    A   vengeance  on   those   lips   that   laieth   such   things   to   my 

charge ! 

Gammer.    A  vengeance  on  those  callats  hips,  whose  conscience  is 
so  large  !  20 

1  Ed.   1575  no.  2  Ed.    I5~5  on.  8  leave,  permission.  4  aught. 


sc.  in]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  233 

Chat.    Come  out,  hogge  ! 

Gammer.  Come  out,  hogge,  and  let  have  me  right ! 

Chat.    Thou  arrant  witche  ! 

Gammer.          Thou  bawdie  bitche,  chil  make  thee  cursse  this  night ! 
Chat.    A  bag  and  a  wallet ! 

Gammer.  A  carte  for  a  callet ! 

Chat.  Why,  wenest  thou  thus  to  prevaile  ? 

I  hold  thee  a  grote,  I  shall  patche  thy  coate !  c  iii 

Gammer.  Thou  warte  as  good  kysse  my  tayle ! 

Thou  slut,  thou  kut,  thou   rakes,  thou  jakes  !  will  not  shame 

make  the  hide  [the]?  25 

Chat.    Thou  skald,  thou  bald,  thou  rotten,  thou  glotton  !   I  will  no 

longer  chyd  the, 

But  I  will  teache  the  to  kepe  home. 

Gammer.  Wylt  thou,  drunken  beaste  ? 

Hodge.    Sticke  to  her,  Gammer!  take  her  by  the  head,  chil  warrant 

you  thys  feast ! 
Smyte,  I  saye,  Gammer !      Byte,  I  say,  Gammer !      I  trow  ye 

wyll  be  keene  ! 
Where  be  your  nayls  ?  claw  her  by  the  jawes,  pull   me  out 

bothe  her  eyen. 

Gogj^  bones,  Gammer,  holde  up  your  head  ! 

Chat.  I  trow,  drab,  I  shall  dresse  thee. 

Tary,  thou  knave,  I  hold  the  a  grote  I  shall  make  these  hands 

blesse  thee ! 
Take  thou  this,  old  hore,  for  amends,  and  lerne  thy  tonge  well 

to  tame, 

And  say  thou  met  at  this  bickering,  not  thy  fellow  but  thy  dame  ! 

Hodge.    Where    is    the    strong    stued     hore  ?     chil    geare    a    hores 

marke!  35 

Stand  out  ones  way,  that  ich  kyll  none  in  the  darke  ! 

Up,  Gammer,  and  ye  be  alyve  !  chil  feygh[t]  now  for  us  bothe. 

Come  no  nere  me,  thou  scalde  callet !  to  kyll  the  ich  wer  loth. 

Chat.    Art   here  agayne,  thou   hoddy  peke  ?   what,  Doll  !  bryng   me 

out  my  spittc. 

Hodge.    Chill  broche  thee  wyth  this,  him  father  soule,  chyll  conjure 
that  foule  sprete  !  40 


234  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  m 

Let  dore  stand,  Cock  !   why  corns,  in  deede  ?   kepe  dore,  thou 

horson  boy  ! 

Chat.    Stand  to  it,  thou  dastard,  for  thine  eares,  ise  teche  the,  a  slut- 
tish toye  ! 
Hodge.    Gogs  woundes,  hore,  chil   make  the  avaunte !   take  heede, 

Cocke,  pull  in  the  latche  ! 
Chat.    Ifaith,  sir  Loose-breche,  had  ye  taried,  ye  shold  have  found 

your  match  ! 

Gammer.    Now  ware  thy  throte,  losell,  thouse  paye  J  for  al ! 
Hodge.  Well  said,  Gammer,  by_my  soule.      45 

Hoyse  her,  souse  her,  bounce  her,  trounce  her,  pull  out   her 

throte  boule  ! 
Chat.    Comst  behynd  me,  thou  withered  witch  ?   and  I  get  once  on 

foote 
Thouse  pay  for  all,  thou  old  tarlether  !  ile  teach  the  what  longs 

to  it ! 
Take  the  this  to  make  up  thy  mouth,  til  time  thou  come  by 

more  ! 

Hodge.    Up,   Gammer,   stande   on    your  feete;    where   is   the  olde 

hore  ?  50 

Faith,  woulde  chad  her  by  the  face,  choulde   cracke  her  callet 

crowne  ! 
Gammer.    A   Hodg,  Hodg,  where  was  thy  help,  when  fixen  had  me 

downe  ? 
Hodge.    By  the  masse,  Gammer,  but  for  my  staffe  Chat   had  gone 

nye  to  spyl  you  ! 
Ich  think  the  harlot  had  not  cared,  and  chad  not   com,  to  kill 

you. 

But  shall  we  loose  our  neele  thus  ? 

Gammer.  No  Hodge  chwarde  2  lothe  doo  soo,   55 

Thinkest  thou  chill  take  that  at  her  hand  ?   no,  Hodg,  ich    tell 

the  no  ! 
Hodge.    Chold    yet    this    fray    wer  wel   take    up,  and  our  neele    at 

home. 

Twill   be   my   chaunce  else   some  to   kil,  wher  ever   it  be  or 
whome  ! 

1  Ed.   1575  pray-  2  Probably  a  misprint  for  '  chware,'  I  would  be. 


sc.  in]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  235 

Gammer.    We  have  a  parson,  Hodge,  thou  knoes,  a  man  cstemed  wise, 

Mast  Doctor  Rat ;  chil  for  hym  send,  and    let   me   here  his 

advise.  60 

He  will  her  shrive  for  all  this  gere,  and  geve  her  penaunce  strait ; 

Wese 1  have  our  neele,  els   Dame   Chat   comes   nere   within 

heaven  gate. 
Hodge.    Ye,  mary,  Gammer,  that  ich  think  best ;  wyll  you  now  for 

him  send  ? 

The  sooner  Doctor  Rat  be  here,  the  soner  wese  ha  an  ende, 
And  here,  Gammer  !  Dyccons  devill,  as  iche  remember  well,  65 
Of  cat,  and  Chat,  and  Doctor  Rat,  a  felloneus  tale  dyd  tell. 
Chold  you  forty  pound,  that  is  the  way  your  neele  to  get  againe. 
Gammer.    Chil  ha  him  strait !   Call  out  the  boy,  wese  make  him 

take  the  payn. 
Hodge.    What,  Co[c]ke,  I  saye !    come  out!     What  devill!    canst 

not  here  ? 

Cocke.    How  now,   Hodg  ?  how  does   Gammer,  is  yet  the  wether 
cleare  ?  70 

What  wold  chave2  me  to  do  ? 

Gammer.  Come  hether,  Cocke,  anon  ! 

Hence  swythe3  to  Doctor  Rat,  hye  the  that  thou  were  gone, 
And  pray  hym  come  speke  with  me,  cham  not  well  at  ease. 
Shalt  have  him  at  his  chamber,  or  els  at  Mother  Bees  ; 
Els   seeke   him  at   Hob  Fylchers  shop,  for   as   charde   it   re- 
ported, 75 
There  is  the  best  ale  in  al  the  towne,  and  now  is  most  resorted. 
Cocke.    And  shall  ich  brynge  hym  with  me,  Gammer  ? 
Gammer.                                                       Yea,  by  and  by,  good  Cocke. 
Cocke.    Shalt  see  that  shal  be  here  anone,  els  let  me  have  on  the 

docke.4 
Hodge.    Now,  Gammer,  shall  we  two  go  in,  and  tary  for  hys  com- 


mynge 


What  devMl,  woman  !   plucke  up  your  hart,  and  leve  of  al  this 
glomming.6  80 

1  we  shall. 

2  CAa-ve  is  either  a  blunder  of  the  author's  in  the  use  of  dialect,  or  a  misprint  for  '  thave  *  == 
thou  have.  8  quickly.  *  tail,  backside. 

6  sulking  ( compare  glum,  and  R.  R.   D.,  I.  i.  66). 


236  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle         [ACT.  m 

Though  she  were  stronger  at  the  first,  as  ich  thinke  ye  did  find 

her, 
Yet  there  ye  drest  the  dronken  sow,  what  time  ye  cam  behind 

her. 
Gammer.    Nay,  nay,  cham  sure  she  lost  not  all,  for,  set  thend  to 

the  beginning, 
And  ich  doubt  not  but  she  will  make  small  bost  of  her  winning. 


The  iii  Acte.     The  iiii  Sceane. 

TYB.      HODGE.      GAMMER.      COCKE. 

Tyb.    Se,  Gammer,  Gammer,  Gib,  our  cat,  cham  afraid  what  she 

ay  let  h  ; 
She  standes  me  gasping  behind  the  doore,  as  though  her  winde 

her  faileth  : 
Now  let  ich  doubt  what  Gib  shuld  mean,  that  now  she  doth 

so  dote. 
Hodge.    Hold  hether  !      I  chould  twenty  pound,  your  neele  is  in  her 

throte. 

Grope  her,  ich  say,  me  thinkes  ich   feele  it ;  does  not  pricke 
your  hand  ?  5 

Gammer.    Ich  can  feele  nothing. 

Hodge.  No,  ich  know  thars  not  within  this  land 

A  muryner  cat  then  Gyb  is,  betwixt  the  Terns  and  Tyne ; 
Shase  as  much  wyt  in  her  head  almost  as  chave  in  mine  ! 
Tyb.    Eaith,  shase  eaten  some  thing,  that  will  not  easily  downe ; 

Whether  she  gat  it  at  home,  or  abrode  in  the  towne  10 

Ich  can  not  tell. 
Gammer.  Alas  ich  feare  it  be  some  croked  pyn  ! 

And  then  farewell  Gyb  !   she  is  undone,  and  lost  al   save  the 

skyn  ! 
Hodge.    TVS  1  your  neele,  woman,  I  say  !      Gogs  soule  !   geve  me  a 

knyfe, 
And  chil  have  it  out2  of  her  mawe,  or  els  chal  lose  my  lyfe  ! 

1  Ed.   1575   Tyb.  -  Kd.   1575  bauct  not  i. 


sc.  mi]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  237 

Gammer.    What !   nay,  Hodg,  fy  !      Kil  not  our  cat,  tis  al  the  cats 

we  ha  now.  1 5 

Hodge.    By  the  jrnasse,  Dame  Chat  hays  me  so  moved,1  iche  care 

not  what  I  kyll,  ma  -  God  a  vowe  ! 
Go  to,  then,  Tyb,  to  this  geare  !   holde  up  har  tayle  and   take 

her! 
Chil  see  what  devil  is  in  her  guts  !   chil  take  the  paines  to  rake 

her! 

Gammer.    Rake  a  cat,  Hodge  !   what  woldst  thou  do  ? 

Hodge.  What,  thinckst  that  cham  not  able  ? 

Did  not  Tom  Tankard  rake  his  curtal  toore3  day  standing  in 

the  stable  ?  20 

Gammer.    Soft !    be  content,  lets  here  what  newes  Cocke  bringeth 

from  Maist  Rat. 
Cocke.    Gammer,  chave  ben  ther  as  you  bad,  you  wot  wel  about 

what. 
Twill   not  be  long  before  he   come,   ich   durst   sweare   of  a 

booke. 
He    byds    you    see    ye    be    at    home,   and    there   for   him   to 

looke. 

Gammer.    Where  didst  thou  find  him,  boy  ?  was  he  not  wher  I  told 

thee  ?  25 

Cocke.    Yes,  yes,  even  at  Hob  Filchers  house,  by  him  that  bought 

and  solde  me  ! 

A  cup  of  ale  had  in  his  hand,  and  a  crab  lay  in  the  fyer ; 
Chad  much  a  do  to  go  and  come,  al  was  so  ful  of  myer. 
And,  Gammer,  one  thing  I  can  tel,  Hob  Filchers  naule  was 

loste, 

And    Doctor    Rat    found    it    againe,    hard    beside    the    doore 

poste.  30 

I   chould   a   penny   can   say   something  your   neele  againe  to 

set 
Gammer.    Cham  glad  to  heare  so  much,  Cocke,  then  trust  he  wil 

not  let 

To  helpe  us  herein  best  he  can  ;  therfore  tyl  time  he  come 
Let  us  go  in  ;   if  there  be  ought  to  get  thou  shalt  have  some. 

1  Ed.   1575  moned.  2  (I)  make  3  t'other,  the  other. 


238  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle        [ACT.  mi 

The  iiii  Acte.     The  i  Sceane.1  D 

DOCTOR   RAT.      GAMMER  GURTON. 

D.  Rat.    A  man  were  better  twenty  times  be  a  bandog  and  barke, 
Then  here  among  such  a  sort  be  parish  priest  or  clarke, 
.Where  he  shall  never  be  at  rest  one  pissing  while  a  day, 
But  he  must  trudge  about  the  towne,  this  way  and  that  way  ; 
Here  to  a  drab,  there  to  a  theefe,  his  shoes  to  teare  and  rent,   5 
And  that  which  is  worst  of  al,  at   every  knaves  commaunde- 

ment ! 

I  had  not  sit  the  space  to  drinke  two  pots  of  ale, 
But  Gammer  Gurtons  sory  boy  was  straite  way  at  my  taile, 
And  she  was  sicke,  and  I  must  come,  to  do  I  wot  not  what ! 
If  once  her  fingers  end  but  ake,  trudge  !   call  for  Doctor  Rat !  10 
And  when  I  come  not  at  their  call,  I  only  therby  loose ; 
For  I  am  sure  to  lacke  therfore  a  tythe  pyg  or  a  goose. 
I  warrant  you,  when  truth  is  knowen,  and  told  they  have  their 

tale, 
The  matter  where  about  I  come  is  not  worth  a  halfpeny  worth 

of  ale  ; 

Yet   must   I   talke  so   sage  and   smothe,  as  though  I  were   a 
glosier  1 5 

Els,  or  the  yere  come  at  an  end,  I  shal  be  sure  the  loser. 
What  worke  ye,  Gammer  Gurton  ?   hoow  ?   here  is  your  frend 

M[ast]  Rat. 
Gammer.    A!   good  M  [ast]   Doctor!   cha  trobled,  cha  trobled  you, 

chwot  wel  that ! 

D.  Rat.    How  do  ye,  woman  ?  be  ye  lustie,  or  be  ye  not  well  at  ease  ? 
Gammer.    By  gys,  Master,  cham  not  sick,  but  yet  chave  a  disease.2  20 

Chad  a  foule  turne  now  of  late,  chill  tell  it  you,  by  gigs  ! 
D.  Rat.    Hath  your  browne  cow  cast  hir  calfe,  or  your  sandy  sowe 

her  pigs  ? 

Gammer.    No,  but  chad  ben  as  good  they  had  as  this,  ich  wot  weel. 
D.  Rat.    What  is  the  matter  ? 
Gammer.  Alas,  alas  !   cha  lost  my  good  neele  ! 

1  Ed.  1575   The  it  Acte.      The  iiii  Sceane.  2  anxiety. 


sc.  H]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  239 

My  neele,  I  say,  and  wot  ye  what,  a  drab  came  by  and  spied 
it,  25 

And  when  I  asked  hir  for  the  same,  the  filth  flatly  denied  it. 
D.  Rat.    What  was  she  that  ? 

Gammer.  A  dame,  ich  warrant  you  !    She  be- 

gan to  scold  and  brawle  — 

Alas,  alas  !     Come  hether,  Hodge  i  this  wr  [e]  tche  can  tell  you 
all. 

The  iiii.  Acte.  •  The  ii  Sceane.1 

HODGE.      DOCTOR  RAT.      GAMMER.     DICCON.      CHAT. 

Hodge.    God  morow,  Gaffer  Vicar. 

D.  Rat.  Come  on,  fellow,  let  us  heare ! 

Thy  dame  hath  sayd  to  me,  thou  knowest  of  all  this  geare ; 

Lets  see  what  thou  canst  saie. 
Hodge.  By m  fay,  sir,  that  ye  shall. 

What  matter  so  ever  there  was  done,  ich  can  tell  your  maship 
[all]  : 

My  Gammer  Gurton  heare,  see  now,  5 

sat  her  downe  at  this  doore,  see  now  ; 
And,  as  she  began  to  stirre  her,  see  now, 

her  neele  fell  to  the  floore,  see  now  ; 
And  while  her  staffe  shee  tooke,  see  now, 

at  Gyb  her  cat  to  flynge,  see  now,  10 

Her  neele  was  lost  in  the  floore,  see  now. 

Is  not  this  a  wondrous  thing,  see  now  ? 
Then  came  the  queane  Dame  Chat,  see  now, 

to  aske  for  hir  blacke  cup,  see  now  : 
And  even  here  at  this  gate,  see  now,  15 

she  tooke  that  neele  up,  see  now  : 
My  Gammer  then  she  yeede,2  see  now, 

her  neele  againe  to  bring,  see  now, 

1  In  Colwell's  edition  this  scene  extends  to  the  end  of  the  act.      There  should  probably  be  a 
division  after  line  63,  and  again  after  line   105  (as  in  Professor  Manly's  edition),  but  we  hav 
retained  the  original  arrangement.  2  went. 


240  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle        [ACT.  mi 

And  was  caught  by  the  head,  see  now. 

Is  not  this  a  wondrous  thing,  see  now  ?  20 

She  tare  my  Gammers  cote,  see  now, 

and  scratched  hir  by  the  face,  see  now  ; 
Chad  thought  shad  stopt  hir  throte,  see  now. 

Is  not  this  a  wondrous  case,  see  now  r 
When  ich  saw  this,  ich  was  wrothe,1  see  now,  25 

and  start  betwene  them  twaine,  see  now  ; 
Els  ich  durst  take  a  booke  othe,  see  now, 

my  gammer  had  bene  slaine,  see  now. 

Gammer.    This  is  even  the  whole  matter,  as  Hodge  has  plainly  tolde  ; 
And  chould  faine  be  quiet  for  my  part,  that  chould.  30 

But  help  us,  good  Master,  beseech  ye  that  ye  doo  : 
Els  shall  we  both  be  beaten  and  lose  our  neele  too. 
D.  Rat.    What  wold  ye  have  me  to  doo  ?   tel  me,  that  I  were  gone ; 
I  will  do  the  best  that  I  can,  to  set  you  both  at  one. 
But  be  ye  sure  Dame  Chat  hath  this  your  neele  founde  ?       35 
Gammer.    Here  comes  the  man  that  see  hir  take  it  up  of  the  ground. 
Aske  him  your  selfe,  Master  Rat,  if  ye  beleve  not  me  : 
And  help  me  to  my  neele,  for  Gods  sake  and  Saint  Charitie  ! 
D.   Rat.     Come    nere,    Diccon,   and    let    us    heare  what  thou   can 

expresse. 

Wilt    thou   be   sworne   thou    seest    Dame    Chat   this   womans 

neele  have  ?  40 

Diccon.    Nay,  by  S.  Benit,  wil  I  not,  then  might  ye  thinke  me  rave  ! 

Gammer.    Why,  didst   not   thou   tel   me   so   even   here?    canst   thou 

for  shame  deny  it  ? 

Diccon.    I,  mary,  Gammer;  but  I  said  I  would  not  abide  by  it. 
D.  Rat.    Will  you  say  a  thing,  and  not  sticke  to  it  to  trie  it? 
Diccon.    "  Stick  to  it,"  quoth  you,  Master  Rat  ?    mary,  sir,  I  defy 
it!  45 

Nay,  there   is   many   an   honest   man,  when   he  suche  Wastes 

hath  blowne 

In  his  freindcs  cares,  he  woulde  be  loth  the  same  by  him  were 
Icnowne. 

1  Kd.    1575,  ivor the. 


sc.  u]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  241 

If  such  a  toy  be  used  oft  among  the  honestie, 

It  may  beseme  a  simple  man  of  your  and  my  degree. 

D.  Rat.    Then  we  be  never  the  nearer,  for  all  that  you  can  tell !      50 

Diccon.    Yea,  mary,  sir,  if  ye  will  do  by  mine  advise  and  counsailc. 
If  Mother  Chat  se  al   us  here,  she  knoweth  how  the  matter 

goes; 

Therfore  I  red  you  three  go  hence,  and  within  keepe  close, 
And  I  will  into  Dame  Chats  house,  and  so  the  matter  use, 
That   or 1   you    cold   go    twise  to  church   I   warant  you   here 
news.  55 

She  shall  look  wel  about  hir,  but,  I  durst  lay  a  pledge, 
Ye  shal  of  Gammers  neele  have  shortly  better  knowledge. 

Gammer.    Now,  gentle  Diccon,  do  so,  and,  good  sir,  let  us  trudge. 

D._JLal.    By  the  masse,  I  may  not  tarry  so  long  to  be  your  judge. 

Diccon.    Tys  but  a  little  while,  man  ;  what !  take  so  much  paine  !   60 
If  I  here  no  newes  of  it,  I  wil  come  sooner  againe. 

Hodge.    Tary  so  much,  good  Master  Doctor,  of  your  gentlenes  ! 

D.  Rat.    Then  let  us  hie  us  inward,  and,  Diccon,  speede  thy  busines. 

Diccon?    Now,  sirs,  do  you  no  more,  but  kepe  my  counsaile  juste, 
And  Doctor  Rat  shall  thus  catch  some  good,  I  trust.  65 

But  Mother  Chat,  my  gossop,  talke  first  with-all  I  must : 
For  she  must  be  chiefe  captaine  to  lay  the  Rat  in  the  dust. 

,  .,^xi  God  deven,  dame  Chat,  in  faith,  and  wel  met  in  this  place  ! 

Chat.    God  deven,  my  friend  Diccon;  whether  walke  ye  this  pace? 

Diccon.    By_my^  truth,  even  to  you,  to  learne  how  the  world  goeth.    70 
Hard  ye  no  more  of  the  other  matter  ?   say  me,  now,  by  your 
troth  ! 

Chat.    O  yes,  Diccon,  here  the  old  hoore,  and  Hodge,  that  great 

knave  — 
But,  in_faith,  I  would  thou  hadst   sene,  —  O    Lord,    I    drest 

them  brave  ! 
She  bare  me  two  or  three  souses  behind   in  the  nape  of  the 

necke, 

Till  I  made  hir  olde  wesen  to  answere  againe,  "  kecke  !  "     75 
And  Hodge,  that  dirty  dastard,  that  at  hir  elbow  standes,— 
If  one  pair  of  legs  had  not  bene  worth  two  paire  of  hands, 

1  ere,  before.  2  M.  begins  a  new  scene  here  ;    H.  says  it  should  begin  at  line  68. 


242  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle         [ACT.  mi 

He  had  had  his  bearde  shaven  if  my  nayles  wold  have  served,     Dij 

And  not  without  a  cause,  for  the  knave  it  well  deserved. 

Dlccon.    By  the  masse,  I  can  the  thank,  wench,  thou  didst  so  wel 

acquite  the !  80 

Chat.    And  thadst  scene  him,  Diccon,  it  wold  have  made  the  beshite 

the 

For  laughter.      The  horsen  dolt  at  last  caught  up  a  club, 
As  though  he  would  have  slaine  the  master  devil  Belsabub. 
But  I  set  him  soone  inwarde. 
Dlccon.  O  Lorde,  there  is  the  thing 

That  Hodge  is  so  offended  !  that  makes  him  start  and  flyng  !     85 
Chat.    Why  ?    makes  the  knave  any   moyling,  as  ye  have  seen   or 

hard  ? 
Diccon.    Even  now  I  sawe  him  last,  like  a  mad  man  he  farde, 

And  sware  by  heven  and  hell  he  would  awreake  his  sorowe, 
And  leve  you   never  a  hen  on   live,  by  eight  of  the  clock  to 

morow ; 

Therfore    marke   what    I    say,    and    my   wordes   see   that   ye 
trust.  90 

Your  hens  be  as  good  as  dead,  if  ye  leave  them  on  the  ruste. 
Chat.    The  knave  dare  as   well  go   hang  himself,  as  go  upon   my 

ground. 

Dlccon.    Wel,  yet  take  hede  I  say,  I  must  tel  you  my  tale  round. 
Have  you  not  about  your  house,  behind  your  furnace  or  leade  1 
A  hole  where  a  crafty  knave  may  crepe  in  for  neade  ?  95 

Chat.    Yes,  by  the  masjie,  a  hole  broke  down,  even  within  these  two 

dayes. 

Diccon.    Hodge  he  intends  this  same  night  to  slip  in  there  awayes. 
Chat.    C)  Christ !  that  I  were  sure  of  it  !   in  faith  he  shuld  have  his 

mede  ! 
Diccon.    Watch  wel,  for  the  knave  wil  be  there  as  sure  as  is  your 

crede. 

I  wold  spend  mv  selfe  a  shilling  to  have  him  swinged  well.    100 
Chat.    I  am  as  glad  as  a  woman  can  be  of  this  thing  to  here  tell. 
By  Gogs  bones,  when  he  commeth,  now  that  I  know  the  matter, 
He  shal  sure  at  the  first  skip  to  leape  in  scalding  water, 

1  Brewing  trough. 


sc.  n]  (jammer  (Burtons  l\edle  243 

With  a  worse  turne  besides  ;   when  he  will,  let  him  come. 
Diccon.    I  tell  you  as  my  sister  ;  you  know  what  meaneth  "  mum  " 

1  Now  lacke  I  but  my  doctor  to  play  his  part  againe.  106 

And  lo  where  he  commeth  towards,  peradventure  to  his  paine  ! 
D.  Rat.    What   good   newes,  Diccon,  fellow  ?    is   Mother  Chat  at 

home  ? 
Diccon.    She  is,  syr,  and  she  is  not,  but  it  please  her  to  whome ; 

Yet  did  I  take  her  tardy,  as  subtle  as  she  was.  110 

D.  Rat.    The  thing  that  thou  wentst  for,  hast  thou  brought   it  to 

passe  ? 
Diccon.    I  have  done  that  I  have  done,  be  it  worse,  be  it  better, 

And  Dame  Chat  at  her  wyts  ende  I  have  almost  set  her. 
D.  Rat.    Why,  hast  thou  spied  the  neele  ?   quickly,  I  pray  thee,  tell  ! 
Diccon.    I  have  spyed  it,  in  faith,  sir,  I  handled  my  selfe  so  well ;    115 

And  yet  the  crafty  queane  had  almost  take  my  trumpe. 

But  or  all  came  to  an  ende,  I  set  her  in  a  dumpe. 
D.  Rat.    How  so,  I  pray  thee,  Diccon  ? 
Diccon.  Mary,  syr,  will  ye  heare  ? 

She  was  clapt  downe  on  the  backside,  lvv_Cocki  mother  dere, 

And  there  she  sat  sewing  a  halter  or  a  bande,  120 

With  no  other  thing  save  Gammers  nedle  in  her  hande. 

As  soone  as  any  knocke,  if  the  filth  be  in  doubte, 

She  needes  but  once  puffe,  and  her  candle  is  out  : 

Now  I,  sir,  knowing  of  every  doore  the  pin, 

Came  nycely,  and  said  no  worde,  till  time  I  was  within;     125 

And  there  I  sawe  the  neele,  even  with  these  two  eyes  ; 

Who  ever  say  the  contrary,  I  will  sweare  he  lyes. 
D.  Rat.    O  Diccon,  that  I  was  not  there  then  in  thy  steade  ! 
Diccon.    Well,  if  ye  will  be  ordred,  and  do  by  my  reade, 

I  will  bring  you  to  a  place,  as  the  house  standes,  130 

Where  ye  shall  take  the  drab  with  the  neele  in  hir  handes. 
D.  Rat.    For  Gods  sake  do  so,  Diccon,  and  I  will  gage  my  gowne 

To  geve  thee  a  full  pot  of  the  best  ale  in  the  towne. 
Diccon.    Follow  me  but  a  litle,  and  marke  what  I  will  say  ; 

Lay    downe   your  gown    beside   you ;    go    to,  come   on    your 
way!  135 

1  M.  begins  a  new  scene  here. 


244       Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle     [ACT.  mi.  sc.  n] 

Se  ye  not  what  is  here  ?   a  hole  wherin  ye  may  creepe 
Into  the  house,  and  sodenly  unwares  among  them  leape  ; 
There  shal  ye  finde  the  bitchfox  and  the  neele  together. 
Do  as  I  bid  you,  man,  come  on  your  waves  hether  ! 

O.  Rat.    Art    thou    sure,   Diccon,  the    swil-tub    standes    not   here 
aboute  ?  1 40 

Diccon.    I  was  within  my  selfe,  man,  even  now,  there  is  no  doubt. 
Go  softly,  make  no  noyse  ;  give  me  your  foote,  Sir  John. 
Here  will  I  waite  upon  you,  tyl  you  come  out  anone. 

D.  Rat.    Helpe,  Diccon  !   out,  alas  !   I  shal  be  slaine  among  them  ! 

Diccon.    If  they  give  you   not  the  nedle,  tel  them  that  ye  will  hang 
them.  145 

Ware  that !      Hoow,  my  wenches  !   have  ye  caught  the  Foxe 
That  used  to  make  revel  among  your  hennes  an  Cocks  ? 
Save  his  life  yet  for  his  order,  though  he  susteine  some  paine. 
Gogs  bread  !   I  am  afraide  they  wil  beate  out  his  braine.     £•* 

D.  Rat.    Wo  worth  the  houre  that  I  came  heare  !  150 

And  wo  worth  him  that  wrought  this  geare  ! 
A  sort  of  drabs  and  queanes  have  me  blest  — 
Was  ever  creature  halfe  so  evill  drest  ? 
Who  ever  it  wrought,  and  first  did  invent  it 
He  shall,  I  warrant  him,  erre  long  repent  it !  155 

I  will  spend  all  I  have  without  my  skinne     .  Dili 

But  he  shall  be  brought  to  the  plight  I  am  in  ! 
Master  Bayly,  I  trow,  and  he  be  worth  his  eares, 
Will  snaffle  these  murderers  and  all  that  them  beares.1 
I  will  surely  neither  byte  nor  suppe  160 

Till  I  fetch  him  hether,  this  matter  to  take  up. 

1  H.  inserts  'ivitb'  before  'them.'      But  'beares'  means  'support,  uphold.' 


[ACT.  v.  sc.  i]      Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          245 
The  v.  Acte.     The  i.  Sceane. 

MASTER   BAYLY.      DOCTOR   RAT. 

Bayly.    I  can  perceive  none  other,  I  speke  it  from  my  hart, 

But  either  ye  ar  in  al  the  fault,  or  els  in  the  greatest  part. 

D.  Rat.    If  it  be  counted  his  fault,  besides  all  his  greeves, 

When  a  poore  man  is  spoyled  and  beaten  among  theeves, 
Then  I  confess  my  fault  herein,  at  this  season  ;  5 

But  I  hope  you  will  not  judge  so  much  against  reason. 

Bayly.    And,  me  thinkes,  by  your  owne  tale,  of  all  that  ye  name, 
If  any  plaid  the  theefe,  you  were  the  very  same. 
The  women  they  did  nothing,  as  your  words  make  probation, 
But  stoutly  withstood  your  forcible  invasion.  10 

If  that  a  theefe  at  your  window  to  enter  should  begin, 
Wold  you  hold  forth  your  hand  and  helpe  to  pull  him  in  ? 
Or  you  wold  kepe  him  out  ?      I  pray  you  answere  me. 

D.  Rat.    Mary,  kepe  him  out,  and  a  good  cause  why  ! 

But  I  am  no  theefe,  sir,  but  an  honest  learned  clarke.  15 

Bayly.    Yea,  but  who  knoweth  that,  when  he  meets  you  in  the  darke  ? 
I  am  sure  your  learning  shines  not  out  at  your  nose  ! 
Was  it  any  marvaile  though  the  poore  woman  arose 
And  start  up,  being  afraide  of  that  was  in  hir  purse  ? 
Me  thinke  you  may  be  glad  that  you  [r]  lucke  was  no  worse.  20 

D.  Rat.    Is  not  this  evill  ynough,  I  pray  you,  as  you  thinke? 

(Showing  his  broken  head.') 

Bayly.    Yea,  but  a  man  in  the  darke,  if1  chaunces  do  wincke, 
As  soone  he  smites  his  father  as  any  other  man, 
Because  for  lacke  of  light  discerne  him  he  ne  can. 
Might   it   not   have  ben  your  lucke  with  a   spit  to  have  ben 
slaine  ?  25 

D.  Rat.    I  think  I  am  litle  better,  my  scalpe  is  cloven  to  the  braine. 
If  there  be  all  the  remedy,  I  know  who  beares  the  k[n]ockes. 

Bayly.    By  my  troth,  and  well  worthy  besides  to  kisse  the  stockes  ! 

1  Printed  (jj\  ed.   1575. 


246  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  v 

To  come  in  on  the  backe  side,  when  ye  might  go  about ! 

I  know  non  such,  unles  they  long  to  have  their  braines  knockt 
out.  30 

D,  Rat.    Well,  wil  you  be  so  good,  sir,  as  talke  with  Dame  Chat, 

And  know  what  she  intended  ?      I  aske  no  more  but  that. 
Bayly.    Let  her  be  called,  fellow,1  because  of  Master  Doctor, 

I  warrant  in  this  case  she  wil  be  hir  owne  proctor ; 

She  will  tel  hir  owne  tale  in  metter  or  in  prose,  35 

And  byd  you  seeke  your  remedy,  and  so  go  wype  your  nose. 


The  v.  Acte.     The  ii  Sceane. 

M.  BAYLY.      CHAT.      D.  RAT.      GAMMER.      HODGE.      DICCON. 

Bayly.    Dame  Chat,  Master  Doctor  upon  you  here  complained 

That  you  and  your  maides  shuld  him  much  misorder, 

And  taketh  many  an  oth,  that  no  word  he  fained, 

Laying  to  your  charge,  how  you  thought  him  to  murder ; 

And  on  his  part  againe,  that  same  man  saith  furder  5 

He  never  offended  you  in  word  nor  intent. 

To  heare  you  answer  hereto,  we  have  now  for  you  sent. 
Chat.    That  I  wold  have  murdered  him  ?   fye  on  him,  wretch, 

And  evil  mought  he  thee  2  for  it,  our_Lord  I  beseech. 

I  will  swere  on  al  the  bookes  that  opens  and  shuttes,  10 

He  faineth  this  tale  out  of  his  owne  guttes  ; 

For  this  seven  weekes  with  me  I  am  sure  he  sat  not  downe. 

Nay,  ye  have  other  minions,  in  the  other  end  of  the  towne, 

Where  ye  were  liker  to  catch  such  a  blow, 

Then  any  where  els,  as  farre  as  I  know  !  1 5 

Bayly.    Belike,  then,  Master  Doctor,  yon  3  stripe  there  ye  got  not ! 
D.  Rat.    Thinke  you  I  am  so  mad  that  where  I  was  bet  I  wot  not  ? 

Wil  ye  beleve  this  queane,  before  she  hath  tryd  it  ? 

It  is  not  the  first  dede  she  hath  done,  and  afterward  denide  it. 

1  This  is  said  to  Scapethryft,  who  is  nowhere  mentioned  in  the  text.      '  Fellow  '   (equivalent 
to  'comrade')  was  originally  a  courteous  mode  of  addressing  a  servant,  like  the  French  man  ami. 

2  111  may  he  thrive  ;    the   phrase  is  common  in  the  fourteenth  century.      Cf.  also  "y-the," 
Hickscorner,  1.   187.  8  Ed.   l$-$you. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  247 

Chat.    What,  man,  will  you  say  I  broke  you[r]  heade  ?  20 

D.  Rat.    How  canst  thou  prove  the  contrary  ? 
Chat.    Nay,  how  provest  thou  that  I  did  the  deade  ? 
D.  Rat.    To  plainly,  by  S.  Alary, 

This  profe  I  trow  may  serve,  though  I  no  word  spoke  ! 

(  Showing  bis  broken  bead.  )  Div 

Chat.    Bicause  thy  head  is  broken,  was  it  I  that  it  broke  ?  25 

I  saw  thce,  Rat,  I  tel  thee,  not  once  within  this  fortnight. 

D.  Rat.    No  mary,  thou  sawest  me  not,  for  why  thou  hadst  no  light ; 
But  I  felt  thee  for  al  the  darke,  beshrew  thy  smothe  cheekes  ! 
And  thou  groped  me,  this  wil  declare  any  day  this  six  weekes. 

(JShowing  his  headed) 

Bayly.    Answere   me  to  this,  M  [ast]    Rat :    when    caught  you  this 

harme  of  yours  ?  30 

D.  Rat.    A  while  ago,  sir,  God  he  knoweth,  within  les  then  these 

two  houres. 
Bayly.    Dame   Chat,    was   there    none   with   you   (confesse,  i-faith) 

about  that  season  ? 
What,  woman  ?  let   it   be  what  it  wil,  tis   neither  felony   nor 

treason. 

Chat.    Yea,  by  my  faith,  master  Bayly,  there  was  a  knave  not  farre 
Who  caught  one  good  philup  on  the  brow  with  a  dore  barre,  35 
And  well  was  he  worthy,  as  it  semed  to  mee; 
But  what  is  that  to  this  man,  since  this  was  not  hee  ? 
Bayly.    Who  was  it  then  ?     Lets  here  ! 

D.  Rat.  Alas  sir,  aske  you  that  ? 

Is  it  not  made  plain  inough  by  the  owne  mouth  of  Dame  Chat  ? 
The  time  agrccth,  my  head  is  broken,  her  tong  can  not  lye,  40 
Onely  upon  a  bare  nay  she  saith  it  was  not  I. 

Chat.    No,  mary,  was  it  not  indeede  !  ye  shal  here  by  this  one  thing  : 

This  after  noone  a  frend  of  mine  for  good  wil  gave  me  warning, 

And  bade  me  wel  loke  to  my  ruste,1  and  al  my  capons  pennes, 

For  if    I    toke    not    better    heede,    a    knave    wold    have    my 

hennes.  45 

1  roost. 


248  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  v 

Then  I,  to  save  my  goods,  toke  so  much  pains  as  him  to  watch  ; 

And  as  good  fortune  served  me,  it  was  my  chaunce  hym  for  to 
catch. 

What  strokes  he  bare  away,  or  other  what  was  his  gaines, 

I  wot  not,  but  sure  I  am  he  had  something  for  his  paines  ! 
Bayly.    Yet  telles  thou  not  who  it  was. 
Chat.  Who  it  was  ?   a  false  theefe,  50 

That  came  like  a  false  foxe  my  pullaine  1  to  kil  and  mischeefe  ! 
Bayly.    But  knowest  thou  not  his  name  ? 
Chat.  I  know  it ;  but  what  than  ? 

It  was  that  crafty  cullyon  Hodge,  my  Gammer  Gurtons  man. 
Bayly.    Cal  me  the  knave  hether,  he  shal  sure  kysse  the  stockes. 

I  shall  teach  him  a  lesson  for  filching  hens  or  cocks  !  55 

D.  Rat.    I  marvaile,  Master  Bayly,  so  bleared  be  your  eyes ; 

An  egge  is  not  so  ful  of  meate,  as  she  is  ful  of  lyes  : 

When  she  hath  playd  this  pranke,  to  excuse  al  this  geare, 

She  layeth  the  fault  in  such  a  one,  as  I  know  was  not  there. 
Chat.    Was  he  not  thear  ?  loke  on  his  pate,  that  shal  be  his  witnes  !  60 
D.  Rat.   I  wold  my  head  were  half  so  hole;  I  wold  seeke  no  redresse  ! 
Bayly.    God_blesse  you,  Gammer  Gurton  ! 

Gammer.  G^c^^kle-^11^2  master  mine  ! 

Bayly.    Thou  hast  a  knave  within  thy  house  —  Hodge,  a  servant  of 
thine ; 

They  tel  me  that  busy  knave  is  such  a  filching  one, 

That  hen,  pig,  goose  or  capon,  thy  neighbour  can  have  none.  65 
Gammer.    Bj/_Ciad,  cham  much  ameved,3  to  heare  any  such  reporte  ! 

Hodge  was  not  wont,  ich  trow,  to  have4  him  in  that  sort. 
Chat.    A  theevisher  knave  is  not   on   live,  more  filching,  nor  more 
false ; 

Many  a  truer  man  then  he  hase  hanged  up  by  the  halse;5 

And    thou,   his    dame,  —  of   al    his    theft    thou    art    the    sole 
receaver ; 6  70 

For  Hodge  to  catch,  and  thou  to  kepe,  I  never  knew  none 
better  ! 

1  poultry. 

2  God  yield  you,  God  reward  you.      Compare  Good  den,  God  devcn  =  good  e'en. 
8  moved,  disturbed.  4  behave.  5  neck. 

6  Perhaps  we  should  read  '  recetter,  *  for  the  sake  of  the  rime. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  249 

Gammer,    Sir  reverence *  of  your   masterdome,  and   you  were   out 
adoore, 

Chold  be  so  bolde,  for  al  hir  brags,  to  cal  her  arrant  whoore ; 

And  ich  knew  Hodge  as  bad   as  tow,2  ich  wish  me  endlesse 
sorow 

And    chould    not  take   the  pains  to   hang    him   up  before  to 

morow  !  7  5 

Chat.    What  have  I  stolne  from  the  or  thine,  thou  ilfavored  olde  trot  ? 

Gammer.    A  great  deale  more,  by  CjojdsJjlest,  then  chever  by  the  got ! 

That  thou  knowest  wel,  I  neade  not  say  it. 
Bayly.  Stoppe  there,  I  say, 

And  tel  me  here,  I  pray  you,  this  matter  by  the  way, 

How  chaunce  Hodge  is  not  here?  him  wold  I  faine  have  had.  80 
Gammer.    Alas,  sir,  heel  be  here  anon  ;   ha  be  handled  to  bad. 
Chat.    Master  Bayly,  sir,  ye  be  not  such  a  foole,  wel  I  know, 

But  ye  perceive  by  this  lingring  there  is  a  pad  3  in  the  straw. 

(  Thinking  that  Hodg  his  head  was  broke,  and  that  Gammer  wold  not  let  him 

come  before  them. ) 

Gammer.    Chil  shew  you  his  face,  ich  warrant  the ;  lo  now  where 

he  is  ! 

Bayly.  Come  on,  fellow,  it  is  tolde  me  thou  art  a  shrew,  iwysse  :  85 
Thy  neighbours  hens  thou  takest,and  playesthe  two  legged  foxe; 
Their  chickens  and  their  capons  to,  and  now  and  then  their 

cocks. 

Hodge.    Ich  defy  them  al  that  dare  it  say,  cham  as  true  as  the  best ! 
Bayly.    Wart  not  thou  take  within  this  houre  in  Dame  Chats  hens 

nest  ? 
Hodge.    Take  there  ?   no,  master ;  chold  not  dot  for  a  house  ful  of 

gold  !  90 

Chat.    Thou  or  the  devil  in  thy  cote  —  sweare  this  I  dare  be  bold. 
D.  Rat.    Sweare  me  no  swearing,  quean,  the   devill    he  geve   the 

sorow  ! 
Al  is  not  worth  a  gnat  thou  canst  sweare  till  to  morow  :          E 

1  saving  your  reverence.  2  as  thou. 

3  Toad;  the  same  phrase  occurs  in  Gosson,  EpbemeriJes  of  Pbialo  (Arber)  63,  "I  have 
neither  replyed  to  the  writer  of  this  libel  .  .  .  nor  let  him  go  scot  free  .  .  .  but  poynted  to 
the  strawe  where  the  padd  lurkes." 


250  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  v 

Where  is  the  harme  he  hath  ?  shew  it,  bvGodsbread  ! 
Ye  beat  him  with  a  witnes,  but  the  stripes  righTorTmy^head  !   95 
Hodge.    Bet  me  ?   Qn^s    hlesse,d_  body.,  chold  first,  ich  trow,  have 

burst  the  ! 
Ich  thinke  and  chad  my  hands  loose,  callet,  chould  have  crust 

the! 
Chat.    Thou  shitten   knave,  I  trow  thou  knowest  the  ful  weight  of 

my  fist ; 

I  am  fowly  deceved  onles  thy  head  and  my  doore  bar  kyste. 
Hodge.    Hold   thy  chat,  whore,  thou  criest  so  loude,  can  no  man  els 
be  hard.  100 

Chat.    Well,  knave,  and  I  had  the  alone,  I  wold  surely  rap  thy 

costard  ! 

Bayly.    Sir,  answer  me  to  this  :   is  thy  head  whole  or  broken  ? 
Hodge.1    Yea,  Master  Bayly,  blest  be  every  good  token, 

Is  my  head  whole  !    Ich  warrant  you,  tis  neither  scurvy  nor 

scald  ! 

What,  you  foule  beast,  does  think  tis  either  pild  or  bald  ?    105 
Nay,  ich  thanke  God,  chil  not  for  al  that  thou  maist  spend 
That   chad   one   scab   on   my    narse   as   brode   as  thy   fingers 

end. 

Bayly.    Come  nearer  heare  ! 
Hodge.  Yes,  that  I  dare. 

Bayly.  By  oyr_Lady,  here  is  no  harme, 

Hodges  head  is  whole  ynough,  foFal  Dame  Chats  charme. 
Chat.    By  Gogs  blest, hou  ever  the  thing  he  clockes  or  smolders,2   no 
I  know  The^Towes  he  bare  away,  either  with  head  or  shoul- 
ders. 
Camest  thou   not,  knave,  within   this   houre,  creping  into  my 

pens, 
And   there  was  caught  within  my    hous    groping   among    my 

,      hens  ? 
Hodge.   'A    plage   both   on    the   hens    &    the !      A   carte,    whore,   a 

carte  ! 

Chould  I  were  hanged  as  hie  as  a  tree  and  chware  as   false  as 
thou  art !  115 

1  Ed.  1575  gives  this  line  to  Chat.  2  cloaks  or  smothers. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  251 

Geve  my  gammer  again  her  washical 1  thou  stole  away  in  thy 

lap! 
Gammer.    Yea  Maister  Baily,  there  is  a  thing  you   know  not  on, 

mayhap  ; 
This  drab  she  kepes  away  my  good,  the  devil  he  might  her 

snare  ! 

Ich  pray  you  that  ich  might  have  a  right  action  on  her  [fare] . 

Chat.     Have  I  thy  good,  old  tilth,  or  any  such  old  sowes  ?  i  20 

I  am  as  true,  I  wold  thou  knew,  as  skin  betwene  thy  browes  ! 

Gammer.    Many  a  truer  hath  ben  hanged,  though  you  escape  the 

daunger ! 

Chat.    Thou  shalt  answer,  by  Gods  pity,  for  this  thy  foule  slaunder  ! 
Bayly.    Why,  what  can  ye  cKargeTYir  withal  ?     To  say  so  ye  do  not 

well.      V 
Gammer.    iMary,  a  Vengeance  to  hir  hart !   the  whore  hase  stoln  my 


neele  !  1 25 

Chat.    Thy  nedle,  old  witch  ?   how  so  ?   it  were  almes  thy   scul  to 

knock  ! 

So  didst  thou  say  the  other  day  that  I  had  stolne  thy  cock, 
xAnd  rosted   him  to  my  breakfast,  which  shal  not  be  forgotten  ; 

The  devil  pul  out  thy  lying  tong  and  teeth  that  be  so  rotten  ! 
Gammer.    Gevc  me  my  neele !      As  for  my  cock,  chould   be  very 
loth  130 

That   chuld   here  tel    he   shuld    hang   on   thy   false   faith   and 

troth. 
Bayly.    Your  talke  is  such,  I  can  scarce  learne  who  shuld  be  most 

in  fault. 
Gammer.    Yet  shall  be  find  no  other  wight,  save  she,  by  bred  and 

salt ! 
Bayly.    Kepe  ye  content  a  while,  se  that  your  tonges  ye  holde. 

Me  thinkes  you  shuld  remembre  this  is  no  place  to  scolde.    135 
How  knowest  thou,  Gammer  Gurton,  Dame  Chat  thy  nedle 

had? 

(jammer.    To  name  you,  sir,  the  party,  chould  not  be  very  glad. 
Bayly.    Yea,  but  we  must  nedes  hcare  it,  and  therfore  say  it  boldly. 
Gammer.    Such  one  as  told  the  tale  full  soberly  and  coldly, 

1  what  shall  I  tall  (it).      Compare  "  nicebecftur,"  R.  D.  I.  iv.   n. 


252  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  v 

Even  he  that  loked  on  —  wil  sweare  on  a  booke—  140 

What  time  this  drunken  gossip  my  faire  long  neele  up  tooke, 
Diccon,  master,  the  Bedlam,  cham  very  sure  ye  know  him. 

Bayly.    A  false  knave,  by  Gods  pjtie  !   ye  were  but  a  toole  to  trow  him. 
I  durst  aventure  wel  the  price  of  my  best  cap, 
That  when  the  end  is  knowen,  all  will  turne  to  a  jape.        145 
Tolde  he  not  you  that  besides  she  stole  your  cocke  that  tyde  ? 

Gammer.    No,  master,  no  indede;    for  then  he  shuld  have  lyed. 
My  cocke  is,  I  -thaok£__Oirist,  safe  and  wel  a  fine. 

Chat.    Yea,  but  that  ragged  colt,  that  whore,  that  Tyb  of  thine, 

Said    plainly    thy    cocke    was    stolne,   and    in    my    house    was 
eaten.  150 

That  lying  cut l  is  lost  that  she  is  not  swinged  and  beaten, 

J  O  O  ' 

And  yet  for  al  my  good  name,  it  were  a  small  amendes  ! 

I  picke  not  this  geare,  hearst  thou,  out  of  my  fingers  endes ; 

But  he  that  hard  it  told  me,  who  thou  of  late  didst  name, 

Diccon,  whom  al  men  knowes,  it  was  the  very  same.  155 

Bayly.    This  is  the  case  :   you  lost  your  nedle  about  the  dores, 

And  she  answeres  againe,  she  hase  no  cocke  of  yours  ; 

Thus  in  you  [r]  talke  and  action,  from  that  you  do  intend, 

She  is  whole  five  mile  wide,  from  that  she  doth  defend. 

Will  you  say  she  hath  your  cocke  ? 

Gammer.  No,  mary,2  sir,  that  chil  not,      1 60 

Bayly.    Will  you  confesse  hir  neele  ? 

Chat.  Will  I  ?      No  sir,  will  I  not. 

Bayly.    Then  there  lieth  all  the  matter, 
Gammer.  Soft,  master,  by  the  way  ! 

Ye  know  she  could  do  litle,  and  she  cold  not  say  nay. 
Bayly.    Yea,  but  he  that  made  one  lie  about  your  cock  stealing, 

Wil  not  sticke  to   make  another,  what   time   lies  be  in   deal- 
ing. 165 

I  wene  the  cnde  wil  prove  this  brawlc  did  first  arise  Kii 

Upon  no  other  ground  but  only   Diccons  lyes. 
Chat.    Though  some  be  lyes,  as  you  belike  have  espyed  them, 

Yet  other  some  be  true,  by  proof  I  have  wel  trycd  them. 

1  'cut'  is  often  used  in  the  sixteenth  century  as  a  term  of" abuse,  especially  for  women. 

2  Printed  mcry. 


sc.  n]  {jammer  Uurtons  Iveale  253 

Bayly.    What  other  thing  beside  this,  Dame  Chat  ? 

Chat.  Mary  syr,  even  this.      170 

The  tale  I  tolde  before,  the  selte  same  tale  it  was  his  ; 
He  gave  me,  like  a  frende,  warning  against,  my  losse, 
Els  had  my  hens  be  stolne  eche  one,  by  Cjods  crease! 
He  tolde  me  Hodge  wold  come,  and  in  he  came  indeede, 
But  as  the  matter  chaunsed,  with  greater  hast  than  speede.  175 
This  truth  was  said,  and  true  was  found,  as  truly  I  report. 

Bayly.    If  Doctor  Rat  be  not  deceived,  it  was  of  another  sort. 

D.  Rat.    By  Ggiis  irmfhpr,  thou  and  he  be  a  cople  of  suttle  foxes  ! 
Betweene  you  and  Hodge,  I  beare  away  the  boxes. 
Did  not  Diccon  apoynt  the  place,  wher  thou  shuldst   stand  to 
mete  him  ?  180 

Chat.    Yes,  by  themasse,  and   if  he  came,  bad   me  not  sticke  to 
speet *  hyTfT 

D.  Rat.    Gods  s_acrament !   the  villain   knave  hath  drest  us  round 

about ! 

He  is  the  cause  of  all  this  brawle,  that  dyrty  shitten  loute  ! 
When   Gammer  Gurton   here  complained,  and   made  a  ruful 

mone, 

I   heard  him  sweare  that   you  had  gotten   hir  nedle  that  was 
gone;  185 

And  this  to  try,  he  furder  said,  he  was  ful  loth  ;   how  be  it 
He  was  content  with  small  adoe  to  bring  me  where  to  see  it. 
And  where  ye  sat,  he  said  ful  certain,  if  I  wold  folow  his  read, 
Into  your  house  a  privy  way  he  wold  me  guide  and  leade, 
And  where  ye  had  it  in  your  hands,  sewing  about  a  clowte,  190 
And  set  me  in  the  backe  hole,  therby  to  finde  you  out  : 
And  whiles  I  sought  a  quietnes,  creping  upon  my  knees, 
I  found  the  weight  of  your  dore  bar  for  my  reward  and  fees. 
Such  is  the  lucke  that  some  men  gets,  while  they  begin  to  mel 
In  setting  at  one  such  as  were  out,  minding  to  make  al  wel.  195 

Hodge.    Was  not  wel  blest,  Gammer,  to  scape  that  stoure  ?  'z     And 

chad  ben  there, 

Then  chad   been  drest,3  be  like,  as  ill,  by  the  masse,  as  Gat/Far 
Vicar. 

1  spit.  2  '  stoure,'  uproar       IVmtfd  iK,utf.  8  served  out,  done  for. 


254  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  [ACT.  v 


Bayly.    l^lacy,  sir,  here  is  a  sport  alone  ;   I  loked  for  such  an  end. 
If  Diccon  had  not  playd  the  knave,  this  had  ben  sone  amend. 
My  gammer  here  he  made  a  foole,  and  drest  hir  as  she  was;  200 
And  Goodwife  Chat  he  set  to  scole,  till  both  partes  cried  alas  ; 
And  D[octor]  Rat  was  not  behind,  whiles  Chat  his  crown  did 

pare. 
I  wold  the  knave  had  ben  starke  blind,  if  Hodg  had  not  his 

share. 

Hodge.    Cham  meetly  wel  sped  alredy  amongs,  cham  drest  lik  a  coult  ! 

And  chad  not  had  the  better  wit,  chad  bene  made  a  doult.  205 

Bayly.    Sir  knave,  make  hast   Diccon   were  here,  fetch  him,  where 

ever  he  bee  ! 

Chat.    Fie  on  the  villaine,  fie,  fie  !   that  makes  us  thus  agree  ! 
Gammer.    Fie  on  him,  krlave,  with   al   my   hart  !   now  fie  !   and  fie 

againe  ! 
D.  Rat.    Now  "  fie  on  him  !  "   may  I  best  say,  whom  he  hath  almost 

slaine. 
Bayly.    Lo  where  he  commeth  at  hand,  belike  he  was  not  fare  !    210 

Diccon,  heare  be  two  or  three  thy  company  can  not  spare. 
Diccon.    God_blesse  you,  and  you  may  be  blest,  so  many  al  at  once. 
Chat.    Come  knave,  it  were  a  good  deed  to  geld  the,  by  Cockes  bones  ! 

Seest  not  thy  handiwarke  ?   Sir  Rat,  can  ye  forbeare  him  ? 
Diccon.    A  vengeance  on  those  hands   lite,  for  my  hands  cam  not 
nere  hym.  2  1  5 

The  horsen   priest  hath  lift  the  pot  in  some  of  these  alewyves 

chayres 
That  his  head  wolde  not  serve  him,  belyke,  to  come  downe 

the  stayres. 
Bayly.    Nay,  soft  !   thou   maist  not  play   the   knave,  and   have  this 

language  to  ! 

If  thou  thy  tong  bridle  a  while,  the  better  maist  thou  do. 
Confesse   the   truth,  as    I    shall    aske,   and    cease   a    while    to 
fable;  220 

And  for  thy  fault  I  promise  the  thy  handling  shalbe  reasonable. 
Hast  thou  not  made  a  lie  or  two,  to  set  these  two  by  the  eares  ? 
Diccon.    What   if  I   have  ?   five   hundred  such   have  1  scene  within 
these  seven  yeares  : 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  255 

I  am  sory  for  nothing  else  but  that  I  see  not  the  sport 

Which  was  betwene  them  when  they  met,  as  they  them  selves 
report.  225 

Bayly.    The  greatest  thing —  iMaster  Rat,  ye  se  how  he  is  drest ! 
Diccon.    Whatjiey.il  nede  he  be  groping  so  depe,  in  Goodwifc  Chats 

hens  nest  ? 

Bayly.    Yea,  but  it  was  thy  drift  to  bring  him  into  the  briars. 
Diccon.    Gods  bread  !   hath  not  such  an  old   foole  wit  to  save   his 
eares  ? 

He  showeth  himselfe  herein,  ye  see,  so  very  a  coxe,  230 

The  cat  was  not  so  madly  alured  by  the  foxe 

To  run  into  the  snares  was  set  for  him,  doubtlesse ; 

For  he  leapt  in  for  myce,  and  this  Sir  John  for  madnes. 
D.  Rat.    Well,  and  ye  shift  no  better,  ye  losel,  lyther,  and  lasye, 

I  will  go  neare  for  this  to  make  ye  leape  at  a  dasve.1  235 

In  the  kings  name,  Master  Bayly,  I  charge  you  set  him  fast. 
Diccon.    What,  faste  at  cardes,  or  fas"t  on   slepe  ?   it  is  the  thing  I 

did  last. 

D.  Rat.    Nay,  fast  in  fetters,  false  varlet,  according  to  thy  deedes. 
Bayly.    Master  Doctor,  ther  is  no  remedy,  I  must  intreat  you  needes 

Some  other  kinde  of  punishment.  Eiii 

D.  Rat.  Nay  by  all  halowes        240 

His   punishment    if  I   may   judg,  shal  be  naught  els  but   the 

gallous. 

Bayly.    That  ware  to  sore,  a  spiritual  man  to  be  so  extreame  ! 
D.  Rat.    Is  he  worthy  any  better,  sir  ?   how  do  ye  judge  and  deame  ? 
Ba\ly.    I  graunt  him  wort[h]ie  punishment,  but  in  no  wise  so  great. 
Gammer.    It  is  a  shame,  ich  tel  you  plaine,  for  such  false  knaves 
intreat !  245 

He  has  almost  undone  us  al  —  that  is  as  true  as  steele, — 

And  yet  for  al  this  great  ado  cham  never  the  nere  my  neele  ! 
Bayly.    Canst  thou  not  say  any  thing  to  that,  Diccon,  with  least  or 

most  ? 
Diccon.    Yea,  mary,  sir,  this  much  I  can  say  wel,  the  nedle  is  lost. 

1  to  'leap  at  a  daisy,'  to  be  hanged.  The  allusion  is  to  a  story  of  a  man  who,  when  the 
noose  was  adjusted  round  his  neck,  leapt  off  with  the  words,  "Have  at  yon  daisy  yonder" 
(PaifuiTt  'Jfent,  1604). 


256  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle          [ACT.  \> 

Bayly.    Nay,    canst    not    thou    tel   which    way    that    nedle    may   be 
found  ?  250 

Diccon.    No,  by  my  fay,  sir,  though  I  might  have  an  hundred  pound. 

Hodge.    Thou  Her,  lickdish,  didst  not  say  the  neele  wold  be  gitten  ? 

Diccon.    No,  Hodge,  by  the  same  token,  you  were  J  that  time  be- 

shitten 

For  feare  of  Hobgobling  —  you  wot  wel  what  I  meane  ; 
As  long  as  it  is  sence,  I  feare  me  yet  ye  be  scarce  cleane.  255 

Bayly.    Wel,  Master  Rat,  you  must  both  learne  and  teach  us  to 

forgeve. 

Since  Diccon  hath  confession  made,  and  is  so  cleane  shreve, 
If  ye  to  me  conscent,  to  amend  this  heavie  chaunce, 
I  wil  injoyne  him  here  some  open  kind  of  penaunce, 
Of  this  condition  (where  ye  know  my  fee  is  twenty  pence)  :  260 
For  the  bloodshed,  I  am  agreed  with  you  here  to  dispence ; 
Ye  shal  go  quite,  so  that  ye  graunt  the  matter  now  to  run 
To  end  with  mirth  emong  us  al,  even  as  it  was  begun. 

Chat.  Say  yea,  Master  Vicar,  and  he  shall  sure  confes  to  be  your  detter, 

And   al  we  that  be  heare  present,  wil    love    you    much    the 

better.  265 

D.  Rat.    My  part  is  the  worst ;  but  since  you  al  here  on  agree, 
Go  even  to,  Master  Bayly  !   let  it  be  so  for  mee  ! 

Bayly.    How  saiest  thou,  Diccon  ?  art  content  this  shal  on  me  depend  ? 

Diccon.    Go  to,  M  [ast]  Bayly,  say  on  your   mind,  I  know  ye  are 
my  frend. 

Bayly.    Then    marke    ye    wel :     To    recompence    this    thy    former 
action, —  270 

Because  thou  hast  offended  al,  to  make  them  satisfaction,— 
Before  their  faces  here  kneele  downe,  and,  as  I  shal  the  teach, — 
For  thou  shalt  take  an  2  othe  of  Hodges  leather  breache  : 
First,  for  Master  Doctor,  upon  paine  of  his  cursse, 
Where  he  wil  pay  for  al,  thou  never  draw  thy  purse;  275 

And  when  ye  meete  at  one  pot  he  shall  have  the  first  pull, 
And  thou  shalt  never  offer  him  the  cup  but  it  be  full. 
To  Goodwife  that  thou  shalt  be  sworne,  even  on  the  same  wyse, 
If  she  refuse  thy  money  once,  never  to  offer  it  twise. 

1  Ed.   1575  "where.  -  Ed.   1575  on. 


sc.  n]  Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle  257 

Thou  shalt  be  bound  by  the  same,  here   as    thou    dost   take 
it,  280 

When  thou  maist  drinke  of  free  cost,  thou  never  forsake  it. 

For  Gammer  Gurton's  sake,  againe  sv.'orne  shalt  thou  bee, 

To  helpe  hir  to  hir  nedle  againe  if  it  do  .ie  in  thee; 

And  likewise  be  bound,  by  the  vertue  of  that, 

To  be  of  good  abering  to  Gib  her  great  cat.  285 

Last  of  al,  tor  Hodge  the  othe  to  scanne, 

Thou  shalt  never  take  him  for  fine  gentleman. 
Hodge.    Come,  on,  fellow  Diccon,  chal  be  even  with  thee  now  ! 
Bayly.    Thou  wilt  not  sticke  to  do  this,  Diccon,  I  trow  ? 
Diccon.    Now,  by  my  fathers  skin  !   my  hand  downe  I  lay  it  !      290 

Loke,  as  I  have  promised,  I  wil  not  denay  it. 

But,  Hodge,  take  good  heede  now,  thou  do  not  beshite  me ! 

(  And  gave  him  a  good  blow  on  the  buttockc. ) 

Hodge.  Gogs  hart !  thou  false  villaine,  dost  thou  bite  me  ? 
Bayly.  What,  Hodge,  doth  he  hurt  thee  or  ever  he  begin  ? 
Hodge.  He  thrust  me  into  the  buttocke  with  a  bodkin  or  a  pin  !  295 

I  saie,  Gammer  !   Gammer  ! 

Gammer.  How  now  Hodge,  how  now  ? 

Hodge.    Gods  malt,  Gammer  Gurton  ! 

Gammer.  Thou  art  mad,  ich  trow  ! 

Hodge.    Will  you  see  the  devil,  Gammer  ? 

Gammer.  The  devil,  sonne  !   God  blesse  us  ! 

Hodge.    Chould  iche  were  hanged,  Gammer  — 

Gammer.  Mary,  se,  ye  might  dresse  us  — 

Hodge.    Chave  it,  by_the_masse,  Gammer  ! 

Gammer.  What  ?    not  my  neele,  Hodge  ?      300 

Hodge.    Your  neele,  Gammer  !   your  necle  ! 

Gammer.  No,  fie,  dost  but  dodge  ! 

Hodge.    Cha  found  your  neele,  Gammer,  here  in  my  hand  be  it ! 
Gammer.    For  al  the  loves  on  j?arth,  Hodge,  let  me  see  it ! 
Hodge.    Soft,  Gammer  ! 
Gammer.  Good  Hodge  ! 

Hodge.  Soft,  ich  say  ;   taric  a  while  ! 

Gammer.    Nay,  sweete  Hodge,  say  truth,  and  do  not  me  begile  !    305 


258         Gammer  Gurtons  Nedle      [ACT.  v.  sc.  n] 

Hodge.    Cham  sure  on  it,  ich  warrant  you  ;  it  goes  no  more  a  stray. 
Gammer.    Hodge,  when  I  speake  so  faire ;   wilt  stil  say  me  nay  ? 
Hodge.    Go   neare  the   light,   Gammer,   this  —  wel,   in   faith,  good 
•lucke  !  — 

Chwas  almost  undone,  twas  so  far  in  my  buttocke  !  Ei\ 

Gammer.    Tis  min  owne  deare  neele,  Hodge,  sykerly  I  wot  !       310 
Hodge.    Cham  I  not  a  good  sonne,  Gammer,  cham  I  not  ? 
Gammer.    Christs  blessing  light  on  thee,  hast  made  me  for  ever  ! 
Hodge.    Ich  knew  that  ich  must  finde  it,  els  choud  a  had  it  never  ! 
Chat.    J3y  myjjpth,  gossyp  Gurton,  I  am  even  as  glad 

As  though  I  mine  owne  selfe  as  good  a  turne  had  !  315 

Bayly.    And  I,  by  my  concience,  to  see  it  so  come  forth, 

Rejoyce  so  much  at  it  as  three  nedles  be  worth. 
D.  Rat.    I  am  no  whit  sory  to  see  you  so  rejoyce. 
Diccon.    Nor  I  much  the  gladder  for  al  this  noyce ; 

Yet  say  "  gramercy,  Diccon,"  for  springing  of  the  game.    320 
Gammer.    Gramercy,  Diccon,  twenty  times  !      O  how  glad  cham  ! 

If  that  chould  do  so  much,  your  masterdome  to  come  hether, 

Master  Rat,  Goodwife  Chat,  and  Diccon  together, 

Cha  but  one  halfpeny,  as  far  as  iche  know  it, 

And  chil  not  rest  this  night  till  ich  bestow  it.  325 

If  ever  ye  love  me,  let  us  go  in  and  drinke. 
Bayly.    I  am  content,  if  the  rest  thinke  as  I  thinke. 

Master  Rat,  it  shal  be  best  for  you  if  we  so  doo; 

Then  shall  you  warme  you  and  dresse  your  self  too. 
Diccon.    Soft,  syrs,  take  us  with  you,  the  company  shal  be  the  more  ! 

As  proude  corns  behinde,  they  say,  as  any  goes  before  ! 

But  now,  my  good  masters,  since  we  must  be  gone, 

And  leave  you  behinde  us  here  all  alone; 

Since  at  our  last  ending  thus  mery  we  bee, 

For  Gammer  Gurtons  nedle  sake,  let  us  have  a  plaudytie ! 

FINIS.      GURTON.      PERUSED  AND  ALOWED,  &c. 

Imprinted  at  London 

in  Fleetestreate  beneath  the  Conduite, 

at  the  signe  of  S.  John  Euangelist,  by 

Thomas  Colwcll 

'575- 


APPENDIX 


The  song  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  exists  in  an  older  and  better 
version,  which  was  printed  by  Dyce  (from  a  Ms.  in  his  own  possession)  in 
his  edition  of  Skelton's  Works,  Vol.  I,  p.  vii.  It  is  not  likely  that  the  date 
of  the  composition  is  much  older  than  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
and  it  may  possibly  be  later.  The  following  copy  is  taken  from  Dyce,  but 
the  punctuation  and  the  capitals  have  been  adjusted  in  accordance  with  the 
rules  elsewhere  adopted  in  the  present  work. 

Backe  and  syde  goo  bare,  goo  bare  ; 
Bothe  hande  and  fote  goo  colde  ; 
But,  belly,  God  sende  the  good  ale  inoughe, 
Whether  hyt  be  newe  or  olde. 

But  yf  that  I  maye  have,  trwly, 

Goode  ale  my  belly  full, 

I  shall  looke  lyke  one  (by  swete  sainte  Johnn) 

Were  shoron  agaynste  the  woole. 

Thowthe  I  goo  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothynge  colde. 

I  stuffe  my  skynne  so  full  within 

Of  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytyll  meate  ; 

My  stomacke  ys  not  goode  ; 

But  sure  I  thyncke  that  I  cowde  drynckc 

With  hym  that  werythe  an  hoode. 

Dryncke  ys  my  lyfe  ;   although  my  wyfe 

Some  tyme  do  chyde  and  scolde, 

Yete  spare  I  not  to  plye  the  potte 

Of  joly  goode  ale  and  olde. 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 

259 


260  Appendix 


I  love  no  roste  but  a  browne  toste^ 

Or  a  crabbe  in  the  fyer  ; 

A  lytyll  breade  shall  do  me  steade, 

Mooche  breade  I  never  desyer. 

Nor  froste,  nor  snowe,  nor  wynde,  I  trow, 

Canne  hurte  me  yf  hyt  wolde  ; 

I  am  so  wrapped  within,  and  lapped 

With  joly  goode  ale  and  olde. 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 

I  care  ryte  noughte,  I  take  no  thowte 

For  clothes  to  kepe  me  warme  ; 

Have  I  goode  dryncke,  I  surely  thyncke 

Nothyng  can  do  me  harme. 

For  trwly  than  I  feare  no  man, 

Be  he  never  so  bolde, 

When  I  am  armed,  and  throwly  warmed 

With  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 

But  nowe  and  than  I  curse  and  banne  ; 

They  make  ther  ale  so  small  ! 

God  geve  them  care,  and  evill  to  fare  ! 

They  strye  the  make  and  all. 

Soche  pevisshe  pewe,  I  tell  yowe  trwe, 

Not  for  a  crowne  of  golde 

There  commethe  one  syppe  within  my  lyppe, 

Whether  hyt  be  newe  or  olde. 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 

Good  ale  and  stronge  makethe  me  amonge 

Full  joconde  and  full  lyte, 

That  ofte  I  slepe,  and  take  no  kepe 

From  mornynge  untyll  nyte. 

Then  starte  I  uppe,  and  fle  to  the  cuppe  ; 

The  ryte  waye  on  I  holde. 

My  thurste  to  staunche  I  fyll  my  paunche 

With  joly  goode  ale  and  olde. 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 


Appendix  26 1 


And  Kytte,  my  wyfe,  that  as  her  lyfe 

Lovethe  well  good  ale  to  seke, 

Full  ofte  drynkythe  she  that  ye  maye  se 

The  teares  ronne  downe  her  cheke. 

Then  dothe  she  troule  to  me  the  bolle 

As  a  goode  malte-worme  sholde, 

And  say,  "  Swete  harte,  I  have  take  my  parte 

Of'joly  goode  ale  and  olde." 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 

They  that  do  dryncke  tylle  they  nodde  and  wyncke, 

Even  as  good  fellowes  shulde  do, 

They  shall  notte  mysse  to  have  the  blysse 

That  good  ale  hathe  browghte  them  to. 

And  all  poore  soules  that  skoure  blacke  bolles, 

And  them  hath  lustely  trowlde, 

God  save  the  ly ves  of  them  and  ther  wyvcs, 

Wether  they  be  yonge  or  olde  ! 

Backe  and  syde,  etc. 


Lyly 


ALEXANDER    AND    CAMPASPE 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and  Notes 
by  George  P.  Baker,  A.B.,  Asst. 
Professor  in  Harvard  University 


CRITICAL    ESSAY 

Life.  — John  Lyly  was  born  in  Kent  between  October  8,  ijfj^,  and 
January,  1554.  He  entered  Magdalen  College,  Oxford,  i_$j>9»  but  was 
almost  immediately  rusticated.  Returning  in  October,  1571,  he  was  gradu- 
ated B.A.  April  27,  1573.  In  May,  1574,  he  wrote  unsuccessfully  to 
Lord  Burleigh,  begging  for  a  fellowship  at  Magdalen.  He  proceeded  M.A. 
June  I,  1575,  and  lived  mainly  at  the  Universities  till  1579.  Euphues, 
the  Anatomic  of  Wit,  appeared  between  December,  1578,  and  spring,  1579. 
Another  edition  was  printed  in  1579  ;  twelve  others  before  1637.  In  An 
Address  to  the  Gentlemen  Scholars  of  Oxford,  prefixed  to  the  second,  the 
1579,  edition,  he  answered  a  charge  of  having  unfairly  criticised  Oxford  in 
the  Anatomic  of  Wit.  A  sequel,  Euphues  and  his  England,  was  licensed 
July  24,  1579,  but  did  not  appear  for  months.  Probably  Lyly  shared  in 
the  disfavour  which,  from  late  July,  i  579,  to  July,  i  580,  the  Queen  showed 
the  party  of  Robert  Dudley  because  of  his  secret  marriage  with  the  Countess 
of  Essex.  Endimion,  probably  the  first  of  Lyly' s  extant  comedies,  was  pre- 
sented between  late  July  and  early  November,  1579,  as  an  allegorical  treat- 
ment of  this  quarrel.  In  or  near  July,  1580,  Lyly  was  "entertained  as 
servant "  by  the  Queen,  and  was  advised  to  aim  at  the  Mastership  of  the 
Revels.  By  July,  1582,  he  is  to  be  found  in  the  household  of  Lord  Bur- 
leigh. A  letter  of  his  was  prefixed  to  Watson's  Passionate  Centurie  of  Love, 
published  1582.  By  1589,  possibly  earlier,  he  had  become  vice-master  of 
St.  Paul's  choir  school.  Before  1584  the  Chapel  Children  and  the  Paul's 
Boys,  for  whom  he  had  written,  ceased  to  act.  During  1584  his  Sapho  and 
Phao,  written  not  long  after  February  6,  1582,  and  his  Alexander  and  Cam- 
paspe  were  printed.  Tityrus  and  Gallathea,  licensed  in  1584,  was  not 
printed  till  1592.  Probably  the  main  plot  was  written  before  1584,  and 
the  sub-plot  for  a  revision  of  the  play  in  or  near  1588.  From  1585  Lyly 
wrote  for  the  Paul's  Boys  till  in  or  near  1591,  when  the  company  was 
again  silent.  The  Chapel  Children  were  not  acting  publicly  between  No- 
vember, 1584,  and  1597.  His  Mydas  was  acted  between  August,  1588, 
and  November,  1589,  and  printed  in  I592t  In  August  or  September, 
1589,  a  pamphlet  entitled  Pappe-witb-an-  Hatchet,  written  by  him  for  the 
High  Church  party  in  the  Marprelate  controversy,  made  its  appearance.  His 


266  yohn  Ljfy 


Mother  Bombie  was  acted  in  1589  or  1590,  and  printed  in  1594.  Alex- 
ander and  Campaspe  and  Sapho  and  Pbao  were  reprinted  in  1591,  and  in  the 
same  year  Endimicn  was  printed.  Gallatkea  appeared  in  1592.  Lyly 
wrote,  in  1590  or  1591,  an  apparently  unsuccessful  begging  letter  to  the 
Queen,  and  another  in  1593  or  1594.  He  was  married  by  1589,  and  he 
had  two  sons  and  one  daughter.  He  was  member  of  Parliament  for  Hin- 
don  in  1589  ;  for  Aylesbury  in  1593  and  1601  ;  and  for  Appleby  in  1597. 
The  Woman  in  the  Moone  was  licensed  in  1595,  printed  in  1597.  The 
quality  of  the  blank  verse  in  this  play  and  the  absence  of  marked  Euphuism 
favour  a  date  of  composition  in  or  near  1590.  LilUe*  s  Light  was  licensed 
June  3,  1596.  If  printed,  it  is  non-extant.  He  wrote  prefatory  Latin 
lines  for  Henry  Lock's  Ecclesiastes,  otherwise  called  The  Preacher,  in  1597. 
In  1597—1600  the  Chapel  Children  revived  his  plays.  The  Maid's  Meta- 
morphosis, incorrectly  attributed  to  Lyly,  was  printed  in  1600.  His  Love's 
Metamorphosis  was  printed  in  1601  :  it  had  been  written  about  the  time  of 
the  Gallathea,  —  before  1584,  or  between  1588  and  1591.  The  Protea- 
Petulius  part  is  probably  from  a  different  play,  or  is  a  survival  in  a  revision. 
Lyly  died  November  30,  1606,  and  was  buried  at  St.  Bartholomew's.1 

The  Place  of  Euphues  in  English  Literature.  —  John  Lyly  was  poet, 
pamphleteer,  novelist,  and  dramatist.  As  a  pamphleteer  he  is  unim- 
portant. As  a  poet  he  can  best  be  studied  in  his  plays.  It  is, 
then,  as  novelist  and  dramatist  that  he  is  important.  The  material 
of  the  two  parts  of  the  Euphues  makes  it  decidedly  significant  in  its 
own  time.  It  is  not,  like  most  of  the  stories  of  Greene  and  Lodge, 
mere  romance,  nor,  like  Nash's  Jack  Wilton,  a  tale  of  adventure 
phrased  with  reportorial  recklessness.  It  is  a  love  story  in  which 
romance  is  subordinated  to  the  inculcation  of  ideas  of  high  living 
and  thinking,  and  the  demands  of  an  involved  style.  It  dimly  fore- 
shadows two  literary  products  which  reach  a  development  only  long 
after  the  days  of  Elizabeth  —  the  novel  with  a  purpose,  and  the 
stylistic  novel.  The  appearance  of  the  book  was  epochal.  Young 
writers  of  the  day  —  Munday,  Greene,  Nash,  and  Lodge  —  copied 
its  style.  Courtiers  patterned  their  speech  upon  it.  Yet  Gabriel 
Harvey  was  probably  right  when  he  ill-naturedly  wrote  :  "  Young 
Euphues  but  hatched  the  egges  that  his  elder  freendes  laide."  The 
Anatomie,  at  least,  is  such  a  book  as  a  recent  university  graduate  of 

1  The  Introduction  to  Endimion,  Holt  &  Co.,  carefully  considers  the  evidence  for  all  these 
statements. 


Jo hn  Lyfy  267 

the  present  day,  well  read  in  some  of  the  classics,  and  especially 
susceptible  to  new  literary  influences  and  cults,  might  compile.  In 
the  division  Euphues  and  His  Epha'bus  Lyly  uses,  with  a  few  omis- 
sions and  additions,  Plutarch  on  Education ;  in  the  letter  to  Botonio 
he  translates  Plutarch  on  Exile.  In  the  part  Euphues  and  Atheos  he 
is  indebted  to  chapters  9,  10,  II,  and  1 2  of  the  Dial  of  Princes 
(1529)  by  Antonio  de  Guevara,  Bishop  of  Guadix  and  Mendoza. 
Euphues  and  Lucilla  debate  "  dubii,"  or  artificial  discussions  of  set 
questions,  such  as  one  finds  in  Hortensio  Lando  or  Castiglione. 
There  is,  too,  almost  constant  use  of  the  unnatural  natural  history 
of  Pliny.  All  this  material  is  bound  together  by  a  style  which, 
though  it  may  ultimately  be  traced  to  the  rounded  periods  of 
Cicero,  had  developed  slowly  in  writers  of  the  Renaissance  and  the 
years  just  before  Euphues  appeared.  George  Pettie,  for  instance, 
in  his  Pettie  Palace  of  Pcttie  His  Pleasure,  published  in  1576,  has 
all  the  stylistic  characteristics  of  the  Euphues  except  the  fabulous 
natural  history.  It  is,  however,  to  Guevara  in  the  Dial  of  Princes 
that  Lyly  is  thought  to  be  particularly  indebted  for  his  style.  This 
man  used  "  lavishly  the  well-known  figures  of  pointed  antithesis 
and  parisonic  balanced  clauses,  in  connection  with  a  general  climac- 
tic structure  of  the  sentence  or  period,  the  emphatic  or  antithetic 
words  being  marked  by  rhyme  or  assonance."  Lyly  substitutes  for 
rhyme  alliteration,  and  adds  persistent  play  on  words.  The  book 
is  genuinely  Renaissance,  then,  for,  looking  to  classic  literature  for 
much  of  its  substance,  it  expresses  itself  in  a  style  that  typifies  an 
intellectual  mood  of  the  hour. 

Lyly's  Plays  :  their  Subdivision.  — Just  before  1580  the  acting  of 
choir  boys  was  in  great  favour  with  the  Queen  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, with  the  public.  The  boys  of  Westminster,  Windsor,  the 
Chapel  Royal,  and  St.  Paul's  were  often  summoned  to  court.  For 
the  last  two  companies,  with  whom  acting  became  a  profession, 
Lyly  wrote  his  plays.  These  divide  into  four  classes.  The  alle- 
gorical comedies,  in  which  what  is  alluded  to  is  as  important  as 
what  is  said,  are  Endimion,  Sapho  and  Phao,  and  Mydas.  Endimion, 
perhaps  the  most  complete  example  of  Lyly's  allegorical  comedy, 
presents  the  apology  of  Leicester  to  the  Queen  for  his  secret  mar- 
riage with  Letticc,  Countess  of  Essex.  Sapho  and  Phao  is  full  of 


268  John  Lyly 

allusions  to  the  coquetting  of  the  Queen  with  the  Due  d'Alencon 
and  his  wrathful  departure  from  England  in  February,  1582.  My  das 
allegorises  —  though  with  less  detail  than  the  others  —  as  to  the 
designs  of  Philip  II.  on  the  English  throne,  and  the  Spanish 
Armada.  Gallathea,  Love's  Metamorphosis,  and  The  IVoman  in  the 
Moone  form  a  second  class  —  pastoral  comedies.  They  are  alle- 
gorical only  when  some  figure  is  given  qualities  which  the  Queen 
was  fond  of  hearing  praised  as  hers.  Mother  Bombie,  standing 
alone  as  a  comedy  on  the  model  of  Plautus,  has  a  much  more  in- 
volved plot  than  any  of  the  other  plays.  Finally,  also  in  a  class 
by  itself,  is  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 

In  this,  as  in  all  the  comedies  except  Mother  Bombie  and  Love's 
Metamorphosis,  Lyly  used  classic  myth  for  his  chief  material.  Yet 
he  but  followed  a  custom  of  the  day,  for  most  of  the  plays  given 
at  court  between  1570  and  1590  by  the  children's  companies  were 
based  on  such  material  :  for  instance,  Iphigenia,  Narcissus,  Alcmceon, 
Quintus  Fabius,  and  Scipio  Africanus.  These  subjects  seem  to  have 
been  treated  as  pastorals,  histories,  and  possibly  allegories.  Lyly 
rejected  in  Alexander  and  Campaspe  the  allegorical  and  the  pastoral 
form,  and  told  rather  naively,  except  in  style,  the  story  of  the  love 
of  Alexander  and  Apelles  for  Campaspe,  repeating  in  his  sub-plot 
many  historic  retorts  of  Diogenes.  In  details  of  method  Lyly 
seems  to  have  had  a  precursor.  Richard  Edwardes  (born  1523,  died 
1566)  in  his  Damon  and  Pythias,  printed  in  1582,  but  usually 
assigned  to  1564,  wrote  in  a  way  very  suggestive  of  Lyly  in  Alex- 
ander and  Campaspe.  He  disclaimed  in  his  prologue  intention  of 
referring  to  any  court  except  that  of  Dionysius  at  Syracuse;  intro- 
duced lyrics  ;  gave  Aristippus  the  philosopher  an  important  place  ; 
inveighed  against  flattery  at  the  court ;  brought  in  the  comic 
episode  of  Grim  the  collier  without  connection  with  the  main  plot, 
just  as  Lyly  often  introduces  his  comic  material ;  and  derived  the 
fun  of  this  scene  mainly  from  two  impudent  pages.  Certainly  it 
would  have  been  natural  for  Lyly,  early  in  his  career,  to  look  to 
the  plays  of  a  former  prominent  master  of  the  Chapel  Children. 

Alexander  and  Campaspe:  Date,  Sources.  —  The  exact  date  of 
Alexander  and  Campaspe  it  seems  impossible  to  determine.  It 
was  written  before  April,  1584,  for  it  was  licensed  for  printing  in 


Lyfy 


269 


that  month.  The  facts  that  similes  and  references  in  Euphues  are 
found  in  it,  and  that  the  work  —  here  of  a  kind  which  Lyly  never 
exactly  repeats  —  resembles  the  early  Damon  and  Pythias  suggest 
that  Alexander  and  Campaipe  belongs  early  in  his  dramatic  career. 
It  has  been  held  that  it  should  precede  Endlmlon,  but  the  allegory  in 
that  play  ;  the  fact  that  Blount,  who  places  Sapho  and  Pbao,  Galla- 
thea,  My  das,  and  Mother  Ramble  in  the  order  approved  by  the  most 
recent  criticism,  puts  it  second  ;  and  the  better  characterization, 
more  natural  dialogue,  and  slightly  closer  binding  together  of  the 
main  and  the  sub-plot,  argue  for  the  second  place. 

The  play,  like  the  Anatomle  of  H  It,  is  a  composite.  The  main 
plot  —  the  story  of  Apelles  and  Campaspe  —  Lyly  found  in  Book 
35  of  Pliny's  History  of  the  World.  His  setting  he  took  from 
Plutarch's  Life  of  Alexander.  That,  too,  gave  him  the  siege  of 
Thebes,  Timoclea,  some  of  the  philosophers'  names,  most  of  their 
speeches,  the  generals,  and  Hephestion,  and  probably  suggested  the 
possibilities  of  Diogenes  as  a  comic  figure.  The  material  for  the 
scenes  of  the  Cynic,  and  the  name  Manes,  he  found  in  the  Lives 
of  the  Philosophers  by  Diogenes  Laertius. 

Literary  Estimate.  —  In  the  extant  plays  from  1550  to  1580  love 
has  but  a  subordinate  part.  In  Alexander  and  Campaspe,  however,  as 
in  all  the  Lyly  comedies,  the  central  idea  is  that  of  nearly  all  the 
great  plays  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  —  the  love  of  man  for  woman. 
Doubtless  the  subject  appealed  to  Lyly  especially  because  in  the  self- 
abnegation  of  Alexander  the  Queen  might  choose  to  see  a  compli- 
ment to  her  final  position  toward  Leicester  and  the  Countess  of  Essex. 
Diogenes  he  used  in  order  to  get  comic  relief.  That  Lyly's  com- 
edies are  comparatively  free  from  vulgarity  is  probably  because  they 
were  given  by  children  before  the  Queen  and  her  ladies.  Possibly 
the  youth  of  the  actors  is  the  reason  for  the  absence  of  strong 
emotional  expression,  but  it  is  more  probable  that  the  temperament 
of  the  author  is  responsible.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  a  dramatist 
who  felt  keenly  emotional  possibilities  in  his  material  could  have 
passed  by  Timoclea  so  rapidly,  for  in  Plutarch  she  has  all  the 
requisites  of  the  heroine  in  a  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  play.  Nor 
would  such  a  dramatist  have  made  so  little  of  the  struggle  of  Alex- 
ander between  infatuation  and  the  desire  to  regain  his  accustomed 


270  yohn  Ly/y 


self-command.  Lyly's  position  toward  his  work  is  like  that  of  the 
early  writers  of  chronicle-history  plays.  He  does  not  depend  on 
selecting  the  most  characteristic  situations  and  speeches,  on  supply- 
ing missing  motives,  on  unification  of  material  which  history  has 
passed  down  in  somewhat  disordered  fashion,  but  on  repeating  as 
many  as  possible  of  the  situations  and  speeches  associated  with  the 
names.  Like  those  writers,  too,  he  makes  no  attempt  to  get 
behind  his  material,  to  see  its  interrelations  and  its  dramatic  sig- 
nificance as  a  whole. 

Some  allowance,  however,  must  be  made  for  faults  in  this  play, 
for  the  Prologue  states  that  it  was  hastily  written.  The  comedy 
itself  shows  that  Lyly  planned  as  he  wrote.  The  opening  scene 
of  the  play  leaves  one  to  suppose  that  Timoclea,  who,  rather 
than  Campaspe,  is  the  chief  female  speaker,  is  to  play  an  impor- 
tant part.  She  never  appears  again,  and  is  mentioned  but  once. 
Later  parts  of  the  play  call  for  some  manifestation,  in  this  first 
scene,  of  Campaspe's  intense  fascination  for  Alexander,  but  there 
is  nothing  of  the  kind.  Nor  does  the  action  in  any  later  scene 
really  prepare  for  Alexander's  self-reproaches  for  his  mad  infatu- 
ation. Until  late  in  the  play,  when  Lylv  speaks  of  Campaspe 
as  Alexander's  concubine,  a  reader  is  not  even  entirely  clear  as 
to  their  relations.  Perhaps  some  of  this  lack  of  clearness  and 
sequence  may  result  because  the  Timoclea  part,  at  least,  of  the 
first  scene  is  a  survival  from  an  older  play.  In  the  Accounts  of  .the 
Revels  at  Court,  under  an  entry  for  expenditures  between  January 
and  February,  1573(4),  "  One  Playe  showen  at  Hampton  Coorte 
before  her  Matie  by  Mr.  Munkester's  Children  "  (Mulcaster's  of 
the  Merchant  Taylors'  School)  is  mentioned.  Interlined  are  the 
words  :  "  Timoclia  at  the  Sege  of  Thebes  by  Alexander." 

The  movement  of  the  comedy  is  episodic.  The  clever  little 
pages  bind  the  scenes  together  ;  Alexander  connects  the  incidents 
of  the  main  story  ;  but  too  often,  especially  in  the  sub-plot,  the 
action  is  not  prepared  for,  and  does  not  lead  to  anything.  Nor 
does  Lyly  care  much  for  climax.  The  Diogenes  sub-plot  does  not 
end  ;  it  is  dropped  just  before  the  main  story  closes.  The  great 
dramatic  possibilities  of  the  final  scene  are  practically  thrown  awav. 
It  is  significant  that  they  could  be  developed  only  by  a  hand  which 


n  Lyly  27J 

could  paint  vividly  the  contest  of  a  soul,  the  gradual  reascendency 
of  old  motives,  and  manly  renunciation. 

Growth  in  character  Lyly  does  not  understand.  As  a  rule  his 
figures  are  types  rather  than  many-sided  human  beings.  Nor  are 
the  types  always  self-consistent.  All  the  nobility  of  Alexander's 
renunciation  disappears  when  he  says  :  "  Go,  Apelles,  take  with 
you  your  Campaspe ;  Alexander  is  cloyed  with  looking  on  that 
which  thou  wond'rest  at."  In  general,  Lyly  is  too  ready  to  depend 
on  the  way  in  which  his  figures  speak  rather  than  on  truth  to  life 
in  what  they  speak.  In  the  retorts  of  Apelles  as  he  talks  with 
Alexander  of  his  work,  there  is,  of  course,  something'of  the  real 
artist's  pride  in  his  art  and  irritation  at  royal  omniscience.  There 
is  characterization,  too,  in  many  of  the  speeches  of  Diogenes,  but 
in  both  of  these  instances  Lyly  is  either  quoting  or  paraphrasing. 
Campaspe,  it  is  true,  is  almost  a  character,  and  slightly  antici- 
pates the  arch  heroines  of  Shakespeare.  Hers  are  coquettishness, 
womanly  charm.  In  her  scene  with  Apelles  in  the  studio  (Act  IV. 
scene  2),  the  underlying  passion  of  both  almost  breaks  through  the 
frigid  medium  of  expression.  The  pages  may  doubtless  be  traced 
back  to  the  witty,  graceless  slaves  of  Latin  comedy,  and  more 
immediately  to  precursors  in  the  work  of  Edwardes,  but  Lyly  adds 
so  much  individuality  and  humour  that  they  are  a  real  accession  in 
the  history  of  the  drama.  Moreover,  many  of  his  figures  often 
comment  incisively  on  customs  and  follies  of  the  time,  preparing 
for  the  later  comedy  of  manners. 

No  preceding  play  is  so  full  of  charming  and  lasting  lyrics. 
In  all  his  comedies  except  The  Woman  in  the  Moone,  Lylv  writes 
neither  in  the  usual  jingling  rhymes  nor  the  infrequently  used 
blank  verse,  but  in  prose.  He  shows  the  men  of  his  day  new 
possibilities  in  dialogue  ;  for  though  his  artificial  style  prevents  easy 
characterisation,  it  does  not  keep  him  from  effective  repartee  and  a 
closer  representation  of  the  give  and  take  of  real  conversation  than 
was  possible  with  the  rhyming  lines,-  or  with  blank  verse  as  it  was 
handled  in  his  day.  Probably,  however,  the  greatest  importance 
of  this  play  for  the  student  of  Elizabethan  drama  is  the  way  it 
shows  interest  in  a  romantic  story  breaking  through  classic  material 
and  Renaissance  expression,  thus  anticipating  the  romantic  drama 


272  John  L/yfy 

of  1587.  Clearly,  then,  the  merits  of  Alexander  and  Campaspe  are 
literary  and  historical,  not  dramatic. 

Lyly's  Development  as  a  Dramatist.  —  That  Lyly  worked,  how- 
ever, steadily  toward  more  genuine  drama  becomes  clear  if  one 
reads  his  plays  in  order.  In  all  he  shows  classical  influence  by  his 
choice  of  subject,  or  by  constant  allusion,  but  he  is  not  a  scholar 
in  the  sense  of  Jonson  or  Chapman.  He  is  well  read  in  certain 
authors  —  Ovid,  particularly  the  Metamorphoses,  Plutarch,  Pliny, 
perhaps  Lucian  ;  he  has  at  his  tongue's  end  many  stock  Latin  quo- 
tations, and  delights  in  misquoting  or  paraphrasing  for  the  sake  of 
a  pun,  sure  that  the  quick-witted  courtiers  will  recognize  the  origi- 
nals. Classical  in  construction  he  certainly  is  not.  His  interest 
is  to  find  a  pretty  love  story  which  gives  opportunities  for  dramatic 
surprises  and  complications,  effective  groupings,  graceful  dances,  and 
dainty  lyrics.  He  is  fertile  in  finding  interesting  figures  to  bring 
upon  the  stage  —  the  fairies  of  Endimion,  the  fiddlers  of  Mother  Bom- 
bie,  the  shepherds  of  Love  s  Metamorphosis,  If  one  examines  the  only 
two  plays  of  his  which  lack  the  contrasting  comic  under-plot, — 
Love's  Metamorphosis )  and  The  Woman  in  the  Moone,  —  it  becomes 
clear  that  they  are  pastorals  or  masques.  Even  the  other  plays  owe 
to  their  sub-plots  the  right  to  be  called  comedies.  By  choice  of 
topics  and  by  temperament,  then,  Lyly  is  a  writer  of  masques. 

At  first  he  developed  his  two  plots  side  by  side,  as  in  Endhnion. 
One  is  used  simply  to  relieve  the  other,  or  to  fill  time-spaces  nec- 
essary between  incidents  of  the  main  plot.  Later,  he  joins  the  two 
slightly  by  letting  figures  in  the  sub-plot  refer  to  incidents  of  the 
main  story.  In  Mother  Bombie  he  brings  the  groups  together  form- 
ally two  or  three  times,  and  closes  the  play  with  nearly  all  the 
characters  on  the  stage.  In  his  last  comedy,  The  Jf^oman  in  the 
Moone,  he  discards  contrasted  plots,  and  tries  to  get  his  eftects  from 
one  large  group  of  figures.  Even  if  his  success  in  meeting  his 
problem  is  not  great,  the  mere  recognition  of  it  is  significant.  Yet 
it  cannot  be  said  that  he  ever  becomes  a  good  plotter,  for  he  is 
always  willing  to  bring  in  anywhere  new  people,  new  interests,  or 
even,  as  in  Mydas,  to  shift  to  a  new  plot  midway.  In  Mother  Bom- 
bie, when  the  climax  of  complication  is  reached  in  the  meeting  of 
the  disguised  Accius  and  Silena  and  their  fathers,  Lyly  is  unable  to 


John  Lyly  273 

master  the  difficulties  of  the  situation.  He  lets  the  two  reveal 
themselves  tamely,  confusingly,  before  he  has  had  anything  like  the 
potential  fun  out  of  the  scene.  Usually  the  plays  ramble  gently  on 
till  Lyly  thinks  the  audience  must  have  enough;  then  the  dens  ex 
machina  appears,  and  all  ends.  Climax  in  closing  he  seems  not  to 
try  for,  but  is  content  to  end  with  a  telling  phrase. 

In  characterization  his  work  varies.  In  the  allegories  he  wishes 
merely  to  suggest  well-known  figures  ;  distinct,  final  characteriza- 
tion would  be  out  of  place,  even  dangerous.  In  the  pastoral- 
masques,  the  land  of  fantasy,  the  lines  of  characterization  need  not 
be  sharply  drawn.  But  even  if  one  looks  at  Mother  Bombie  and  the 
sub-plots  of  the  plays,  one  sees  that  though  there  is  perhaps  a  slight 
gain  in  portraying  the  figures,  the  people  are  too  often  significant 
for  the  way  in  which  they  talk  rather  than  for  action  or  char- 
acterizing speech.  When  Lyly  attempts  strong  presentation  of 
crucial  moments  or  pathos,  he  stammers,  or  is  particularly  con- 
ventional. 

As  he  develops,  he  modifies  the  eccentricities  of  his  style.  Nor  is 
it  probable  that  the  passing  of  the  popular  enthusiasm  for  Euphuism 
is  wholly  responsible  for  this.  He  had  the  good  sense  to  see  the 
superiority  of  prose  to  verse  as  the  expression  of  comedy,  and  he 
must  have  felt  how  much  his  rigidly  artificial  style  cramped  him. 
In  Mother  Bombie,  1589—91,  Euphuism  is  well-nigh  gone.  In  its 
place  we  have  a  style  in  which  characterized  dialogue  is  more 
possible  and  more  evident.  In  The  Woman  in  the  Moone  the  exi- 
gencies of  verse  are  too  much  for  Euphuism,  and  it  practically 
disappears. 

Very  slowly,  then,  Lyly  was  working  toward  a  drama  of  simple 
characterizing  dialogue,  more  unified,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
complex.  Even  as  he  worked,  however,  Kyd,  Greene,  and  Mar- 
lowe swept  by  to  accomplishment  impossible  for  him  under  anv 
conditions. 

His  Place  in  English  Comedy. — John  Lyly  is  not  merely,  then, 
as  has  been  too  often  suggested,  a  scholar  u  picking  fancies  out  of 
books  (with)  little  else  to  marvel  at."  He  was  keenly  alive  to  for- 
eign and  domestic  influences  at  work  about  him.  His  use  of  what 
other  men  offer  foreshadows  the  marvellous  assimilative  power  of 


274  John  Lyly 


Shakespeare.  He  seems  to  retain  and  apply  with  freedom  all  the 
similes  and  illustrations  that  come  in  his  way  ;  many  are  not  to  be 
hunted  down  except  in  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  books  best 
known  to  him.  Only  a  man  of  poetic  feeling  would  have  cared  to 
work  in  these  allegories  and  pastorals.  Humorous  he  is  in  the  scenes 
of  the  pages.  Here  and  there,  as  in  some  of  the  replies  of  Apelles 
to  Alexander,  and  in  the  words  of  Parmenio  on  the  rising  sun  (Act  I, 
scene  i),  there  is  caustic  irony.  Lyly  is  a  thinker,  too,  and  a  critic, 
as  his  frequent  satire  of  existing  social  customs  or  follies  shows. 
Now  and  then  he  is  fearless ;  for  instance,  in  his  portrayal  before 
the  Queen  of  the  artist's  contempt  for  royal  assumption  of  know- 
ledge (Act  III,  scene  4),  and  in  his  comment  on  the  impossibility  of 
happy  love  between  a  subject  and  a  monarch  (Act  IV,  scene  4).  His 
allegories  show  best  his  ingenuity  and  inventiveness.  His  mastery 
of  involved  phrasing  is  indubitable. 

Without  doubt,  however,  his  attitude  toward  his  work  is  more 
that  of  the  scholar  than  the  poet  or  dramatist.  His  work  is  imita- 
tion of  others  who  seem  to  him  models,  with  the  main  attention  on 
style.  He  has  the  inventiveness  of  the  dramatist,  but  not  his  in- 
stinct for  technique  or  recognition  of  the  possibilities  of  a  story  and 
care  in  working  them  out.  He  never  says  a  thing  for  himself  if  he 
can  find  it  anywhere  in  a  recognized  author.  In  this,  however,  he 
shared  in  the  mood  of  Spenser  and  his  group.  Indeed,  a  little  com- 
parison of  Lyly  with  Spenser  will  show  that,  though  in  accomplish- 
ment he  is  far  below  the  poet,  he  expresses  in  his  comedies  the 
historical  influences,  the  existing  intellectual  conditions,  and  the 
literary  aspirations  which  Spenser  phrases  in  his  early  work.  It  is 
in  poetic  power,  in  imaginative  sweep,  that  the  two  separate 
widely. 

Yet  Lylv,  drawing  on  what  preceded  and  what  surrounded  him, 
did  more  than  express  the  literary  mood  and  desires  of  his  day. 
Through  him  the  lyric  in  the  drama  came  to  Dckker,  Jonson,  and 
Shakespeare,  more  dainty  and  more  varied.  He  broke  the  way  for 
later  men  to  use  prose  as  the  means  of  expression  for  comedy.  He 
gave  them  suggestions  for  clever  dialogue.  At  a  time  of  loose  and 
hurried  dramatic  writing  he  showed  that  literary  finish  might  well 
accompany  such  composition.  His  pages  are  the  prototypes  of  the 


Lyfy 


275 


boys  and  servants  in  Peele,  Chapman,  Jonson,  and  Shakespeare.  In 
a  small  way  he  foreshadowed  the  comedy  of  manners.  For  as  close 
a  relationship  between  the  drama  and  politics  as  we  find  in  his  alle- 
gories, we  must  look  to  the  declining  days  of  the  Jacobean  drama  — 
to  Middieton's  Game  of  Chess.  The  romantic  spirit  found  expres- 
sion in  him,  not  in  a  drama  of  blood,  but  in  pastorals  and  masques 
which  look  forward  to  the  masques  of  Jonson,  to  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  As  You  Like  It.  His  influence  on 
the  highly  sensitized  mind  of  Shakespeare  may  be  traced  in  many 
lines  and  scenes. 

His  vogue  as  a  dramatist  was  short.  By  1590  the  boisterous, 
romantic  drama,  the  often  inchoate  chronicle  history,  both  frequently 
accompanied  by  scenes  of  would-be  comic  horse-play,  engrossed 
public  attention.  The  great  period  of  experimentation  with  both  old 
and  crude  forms  was  beginning.  It  is  not  surprising  that  when 
Lyly's  plays  were  revived  by  the  Chapel  Children  in  1597—1600, 
they  could  not  stand  comparison  with  the  work  of  Jonson,  Dekker, 
Heywood,  and  other  dramatists  of  the  day,  but  were  called  "  musty 
fopperies  of  antiquity."  Their  work,  in  bridging  from  the  classic 
to  romantic  comedy,  as  the  Drama  of  Blood  bridged  from  Seneca  to 
real  tragedy,  was  done.  Thereafter  their  main  interest  must  be 
historical. 

Previous  Editions  and  the  Present  Text.  —  The  title  of  the  first 
quarto  (1584)  is,  "A  moste  excellent  Comedie  of  Alexander,  Cam- 
paspe,  and  Diogenes,  played  before  the  Queenc's  Maiestie  on  twelfe 
day  at  night,  by  her  Maiestie's  Children,  and  the  Children  of  Paules. 
Imprinted  at  London,  for  Thomas  Cadman,  1584."  In  the  second 
edition,  issued  the  same  year  by  the  same  publisher,  the  title  is 
changed  to  Campaspe,  and  the  play  is  said  to  have  been  given  "•  on 
new  yeares  day  at  night."  The  title,  Campaspe,  was  retained  in  the 
third  quarto,  1591,  for  William  Broome,  and  in  Edward  Blount's 
duodecimo  collective  edition,  1632.  (Manly.)  Both,  too,  state  that 
the  play  was  given  "  on  twelfe-day  at  night."  The  headlines  ot 
all  the  quartos  read  Alexander  and  Campaspe;  of  Blount,  A  tragical! 
Comedie  of  Alexander  and  Campaspe.  Besides  the  quartos  and  Blount's 
Sixe  Court  Comedies  there  are  these  reprints:  in  Vol.  II.,  Dodsley's 
Select  Collection  of  Old  Plays,  1825;  in  Vol.  I.,  John  Lilly's  Dra- 


276  John  Ly/y 

math  Works,  F.  W.  Fairholt,  1858  ;  in  Vol.  II.,  Specimens  of  the  Pre- 
Shaksperean  Drama,  J.  M.  Manly,  1897.  1°  tne  footnotes  of  the 
present  edition  the  quartos  are  indicated  by  A.  B.  and  C.,  the  other 
editions  by  Bl.  Do.  F.  and  M.  respectively.  Blount's  text,  mainly, 
is  followed.  The  variant  readings  of  the  quartos  are  given  on  the 
authority  of  Fairholt. 

GEORGE  P.  BAKER. 


CAMPASPE 

"Played  before  the  Qjieenes 

Maieftie  on  Twelfe 

day  at  Night  : 

"By  her   M  A  I  E  s  T  I  E  S 
Children,  and  the  Chil- 
dren of  Panics. 


Vignette  with 
motto  : 

Mollia  cum  duris 


LONDON, 

Printed  by  William  Stansby, 
for  Edward  TSlmnt. 

1632. 


The  Persons  of  the  Play1 

ALEXANDER,  King  of  Macedon. 
HEPHESTION,  bis  General. 
CLYTUS, 

PARMENIO,  ,„ 

TV/T  \  warriors. 

MILECTUS, 

PHRYGIUS, 

MELIPPUS,  Chamberlain  to  Alexander. 

ARISTOTLE, 

DIOGENES, 

CRISIPPUS, 


CRATES, 


Philosophers. 


CLEANTHES, 

ANAXARCHUS, 

CRYSUS, 

APELLES,  a  Painter. 

SOLINUS,         "I 

SYLVIUS,         ) 

PERIM,  \ 

MILO,  '-  Sons  of  Sylvius. 

TRICO, 

GRANICUS,  Servant  to  Plato. 

MANES,  Servant  to  Diogenes. 

PSYLLUS,  Servant  to  Appelles. 

Page  to  Alexander. 

Citizens  of  Athens. 

Soldiers. 

CAMPASPE,       )    ,_,    , 

rp,  >    Theban  Captives. 

TlMOCLEA,          j 

LAIS,  a  Courtezan. 


SCENE:   ATHENS 

1  Do.  first  gives  the  list.      The  two  companies  were  probably  united   for  the  Court  perfor- 
mance.     Thus  the  doubling  of  parts,  common  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  was  avoided. 


THE    PROLOGUE    AT 

the  blacke  Friers l    ' 

THEY  that  feare  the  stinging  of  waspes  make  fannes  of  peacocks 
tailes,  whose  spots  are  like  eyes ;  and  Lepidus,  which  could  not 
sleepe  for  the  chattering  of  birds,  set  up  a  beast  whose  head  was 
like  a  dragon  ; 2  and  wee,  which  stand  in  awe  of  report,  are  com- 
pelled to  set  before  our  owle  Pallas  shield,3  thinking  by  her  vertue  5 
to  cover  the  others  deformity.  It  was  a  signe  of  famine  to  ^Egypt 
when  Nylus  flowed  lessc  than  twelve  cubitcs  or  more  than  eighteene  : 
and  it  may  threaten  despaire  unto  us  if  wee  be  lesse  courteous  than 
you  looke  for  or  more  cumbersome.  But,  as  Theseus,  being  prom- 
ised to  be  brought  to  an  eagles  nest,  and,  travailing  all  the  day,  10 
found  but  a  wren  in  a  hedge,  yet  said,  "  This  is  a  bird,"  so,  we 
hope,  if  the  shower4  of  our  swelling  mountaine  seeme5  to  bring 
forth  some  elephant,  performe  but  a  mouse,  you  will  gently  say, 
"This  is  a  beast."  Basill  softly  touched  yieldeth  a  sweete  sent, 
but  chafed  in  the  hand,  a  ranke  savour:  we  feare,  even  so,  that  our  15 
labours  slily0  glanced  on  will  breed  some  content,  but  examined  to 

1  Before  i  584  the  Chapel  Children  acted  publicly  in  a  Blackfriars'  inn-yard.  See  pp.  cxi— 
cxxxv,  Lyly's  EnJimion,  Holt  &  Co. 

-  "  It  hapned  during  the  time  ot"  his  Triumvirat  ( Lepidus' s),  that  in  a  certain  place  where 
he  was,  the  magistrates  attended  him  to  his  lodging  environed  as  it  were  with  woods  on  everie 
side  :  the  next  morrow  Lepidus  ...  in  bitter  tearmes  and  minatorie  words  chid  them  for  that  they 
had  laid  him  where  he  could  not  sleep  a  wink  all  night  long,  for  the  noise  and  singing  that  the 
birds  made  about  him.  They  being  thus  checked  and  rebuked,  devised  against  the  next  night 
to  paint  in  a  piece  of  parchment  of  great  length  a  long  Dragon  or  serpent,  wherewith  they  com- 
passed the  place  where  Lepidus  should  take  his  repose  5  the  sight  of  which  serpent  thus  painted 
so  terrified  the  birds,  that  they  .  .  .  were  altogether  silent."  —  Pliny,  Hist.  oflfor/J,  Hol- 
land, 1635,  xxxv.  i  i . 

3  The   favor   of  the    Oueen.       Elizabeth,    like    Minerva,  was   called    Pallas  because   of  her 
celibacy.      These  words,  with  11.  12,   13,  p.   33',  show  that  the  Court  performance  came  first. 

4  The  author,  who  presents  the  play. 

<»  '  Seeming  '  ?  6  '  Slightly  '  ?      M. 

2-9 


280      The  Prologue  at  the  blacke  Friers 

the  proofe,  small  commendation.  The  haste  in  performing  shall  be 
our  excuse.  There  went  two  nights  to  the  begetting  of  Hercules  ; 
feathers  appeare  not  on  the  Phoenix  under  seven  moneths  ;  and  the 
mulberie  is  twelve  in  budding  :  but  our  travailes  are  like  the  hares,  20 
who  at  one  time  bringeth  forth,  nourisheth,  and  engendreth  againe,1 
or  like  the  brood  of  Trochilus,2  whose  egges  in  the  same  moment 
that  they  are  laid  become  birds.  But,  howsoever  we  finish  our 
worke,  we  crave  pardon  if  we  offend  in  matter,  and  patience  if  wee 
transgresse  in  manners.  Wee  have  mixed  mirth  with  councell,  and  25 
discipline  with  delight,  thinking  it  not  amisse  in  the  same  garden 
to  sow  pot-hearbes  that  wee  set  flowers.  But  wee  hope,  as  harts 
that  cast  their  homes,  snakes  their  skins,  eagles  their  bils,  become 
more  fresh  for  any  other  labour,  so,  our  charge  being  shaken  off, 
we  shall  be  fit  for  greater  matters.  But  least,  like  the  Myndians,  30 
wee  make  our  gates  greater  than  our  towne,3and  that  our  play  runs 
out  at  the  preface,  we  here  conclude,  —  wishing  that  although  there 
be  in  your  precise  judgements  an  universall  mislike,  yet  we  may 
enjoy  by  your  wonted  courtesies  a  generall  silence. 

1  Holland,  IX.  55;   Topsell,  Hist,  of  Four-footed  Beasts,  1607,  p.  267. 

2  A  small,  plover-like  Nile  bird. 

3  "Coming  once  to  Myndos  (Dorian  colony  on  Carian  coast),  and  seeing  their  Gates  very 
large,  and  their  City  but  small,  [Diogenes]  said,  '  You  Men  of  Myndos,  I  advise  you  to  shut 
up  your  Gates  for  fear  your  town  should  run  out.1  "  —  Diogenes  Laertius,  Lives  of  Philosophers, 
1696,  VI.  425. 


The  Prologue  at  the  Court 

WE  are  ashamed  that  our  bird,  which  fluttereth  by  twilight,  seem- 
ing a  swan,  should  J  bee  proved  a  bat,  set  against  the  sun.  Hut,  as 
Jupiter  placed  Silenus  asse  among  the  starrcs,  and  Alcibiades  cov- 
ered his  pictures,  being  owles  and  apes,  with  a  curtaine  imbroidcred 
with  lions  and  eagles,  so  are  we  enforced  upon  a  rough  discourse  to  5 
draw  on  a  smooth  excuse,  resembling  lapidaries  who  thinke  to  hide 
the  cracke  in  a  stone  by  setting  it  deepc  in  gold.  The  gods  supped 
once  with  poore  Baucis;2  the  Persian  kings  sometimes  shaved 
stickes ;  our  hope  is  Your  Highnesse  wil  at  this  time  lend  an  eare 
to  an  idle  pastime.  Appion,  raising  Homer  from  hell,  demanded  10 
only  who  was  his  father;3  and  we,  calling  Alexander  from  his  grave, 
secke  only  who  was  his  love.  Whatsoever  wee  present,  we  wish  it 
may  be  thought  the  dancing  of  Agrippa4  his  shadowes,  who,  in  the 
moment  they  were  scene,  were  of  any  shape  one  would  conceive ; 
or  Lynces,5  who,  having  a  quicke  sight  to  discernc,  have  a  short  15 
memory  to  forget.  With  us  it  is  like  to  fare  as  with  these  torches, 
which  giving  light  to  others  consume  themselves;  and  we  shewing 
delight  to  others  shame  ourselves. 

1  '  Which,  fluttering  by  twilight,  seemeth  a  swan,  should  '  ? 
-  Ovid,  Mcta.  III.  631. 

3  Holland,  XXX.  ^. 

4  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa   (von  Nettesheim),   knight,  doctor,  and,  by  common  reputa- 
tion, magician.      Died  1535.      On  request  he  raised  spirits  —  of  the  dead,  Tully  delivering   his 
oration  on  Roscius;   of  the  living,  Henry  VIII.  and  his  lords  hunting.  —  Godwin,  Lii'es  of 
Necromancers,   1834,   324-25. 

0  Lynxe*.  "  It  is  thought  that  of  all  beastes  they  seeme  most  brightly,  for  the  poets  faine 
that  their  eie-sight  pierceth  through  every  solid  body,  although  it  be  as  thicke  as  a  wall.  .  .  . 
Although  they  be  long  afflicted  with  hunger,  yet  when  they  eate  their  meate,  if  they  heare  any 
noise,  or  any  other  chaunce  cause  them  to  turne  aboute  from  their  meate,  oute  of  the  sight 
of  it,  they  forgette  their  prey,  notwithstanding  their  hunger,  and  go  to  seeke  another  booty. " 
—  Topsell,  489-4(^2. 

281 


[Alexander     and     Campaspe] 


Actus  primus.     Scaena  prima1 
Enter  CLITUS  and  PAR  MEMO  2 

\LTTUS.  Parmento,  I  cannot  tell  whether  I  should  more 
commend  in  Alexanders  victories  courage,  or  courtesie, 
in  the  one  being  a  resolution  without  feare,  in  the  other 
a  liberalitie  above  custome.  Thebes  is  razed,  the  people 
not  racked;  towers  throwne  downe,  bodies  not  thrust  aside;  a  con-  5 
quest  without  conflict,  and  a  cruell  warre  in  a  milde  peace.3 

Par.  Clytus,  it  becommeth  the  sonne  of  Philip  to  bee  none  other 
than  Alexander  is  ;  therefore,  seeing  in  the  father  a  full  perfection, 
who  could  have  doubted  in  the  sonne  an  excellency  ?  For,  as  the 
moone  can  borrow  nothing  else  of  the  sunne  but  light,4  so  of  a  sire  10 
in  whom  nothing  but  vertue  was  what  could  the  childe  receive  but 
singular  ?  5  It  is  for  turkies  to  staine  each  other,  not  for  diamonds  ; 
in  the  one  to  bee  made  a  difference  in  goodnesse,  in  the  other  no 
comparison.6 

1  Manly,  the  only  editor  of  preceding  texts,  who  attempts  to  place  the  scenes,  prints  here  : 
"The  audience-chamber  of  the  palace.      Clitus  and    Parmenio  near  the  door.      Timoclea  and 
Campaspe  are  brought  in  later  as  prisoners.      Alexander  on  the  throne,  attended  by  Hephcstion." 
Do  not  lines  77-78  suggest  that   the  scene  takes  place  just  outside  the  city  walls,  as  Alexander 
returns  from  conquest  ;   and  that  the  characters  enter  one  after  another  ? 

2  Plutarch  {Alexander}   says  Clitus   was  of  "a    churlish    nature,    prowde    and    arrogant." 
See  IV.   315,  357-59.      Plutarch  mentions  Parmenio  (Alexander},  IV.   354—56. 

3  Lyly  softens  Plutarch.      See  IV.   309-10. 

4  "  Likewise  that  shee  loseth  her  light  (as  the  rest  of  the   planets)  by  the  brightnes  of  the 
Sun,  when  she  approcheth   neere.      For  borrowing  wholly  of   him   her   light  she  doth  shine." 
Holland,  II.  <).  '>  Old  French  singulicr,  excellent.      Y. 

6  'Staine'  for  excel.      The  sense  is,  "  It  is  for  turquoises  to  excel  one  another,  not  for  dia- 
monds, for  among  the  latter  there  can  be  no  comparison,  since  all  are  perfect." 

283 


284  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of  [ACT.  i 

Clytus.    You  mistake  mee,  Parmenio,  if,  whilest  I  commend  Alex-  15 
ander,   you   imagine   I   call   Philip   into   question  ;   unlesse,   happily, 
you  conjecture  (which   none  of  judgement  will  conceive)  that  be- 
cause I   like  the  fruit,  therefore  I  heave  at  the  tree,  or,  coveting  to 
kisse  the  childe,  I  therefore  goe  about  to  poyson  the  teat. 

Par.    I,  but,  Clytus,  I   perceive  you  are  borne   in  the  east,  and  20 
never  laugh  but  at  the  sunne  rising  ; l  which  argueth,  though  a  dutie 
where  you  ought,  yet  no  great  devotion  where  you  might. 

Clytus.    We  will  make  no  controversie  of  that  [of]2  which  there 
ought  to  be  no  question  ;   onely  this  shall  be  the  opinion  of  us  both, 
that  none  was  worthy  to  be  the  father  of  Alexander  but  Philip,  nor  25 
any  meete  to  be  the  sonne  of  Philip  but  Alexander. 

\_Enter  Soldiers  with  TIMOCLEA,  CAMPASPE,  other  captives,  and  spoils. ,] 

Par.  Soft,  Clytus,  behold  the  spoiles  and  prisoners  !  A  pleasant 
sight  to  us,  because  profit  is  joyned  with  honour ;  not  much  pain- 
full  to  them,  because  their  captivitie  is  eased  by  mercie. 

Timo.    [aside] .      Fortune,  thou  didst   never    yet    deceive  vertue,  30 
because  vertue  never  yet  did  trust   fortune  !      Sword   and   fire  will 
never  get  spoyle  where  wisdome  and    fortitude    beares  sway.      O 
Thebes,  thy  wals  were  raised   by  the  sweetnesse  of  the  harpe,3  but 
rased  by  the  shrilnes  of  the  trumpet  !      Alexander  had  never  come 
so  neer  the  wals,  had  Epaminondas  walkt  about  the  wals  ;   and  yet  35 
might  the  Thebanes  have  beene   merry  in  their  streets,  if  hee  had 
beene  to  watch  their  towers.      But  destinie  is    seldome    forseene, 
never  prevented.      We  are   here    now  captives,  whose  neckes  are 
yoaked  by  force,  but  whose  hearts  cannot  yeeld  by  death.  —  Come 
Campaspe  and   the  rest,  let  us  not  be  ashamed  to  cast  our  eyes  on  40 
him  on  whom  we  feared  not  to  cast  our  darts. 

Par.  Madame,  you  need  not  doubt ; 4  it  is  Alexander  that  is  the 
conquerour. 

Timo.    Alexander  hath  overcome,  not  conquered. 

Par.    To  bring  all  under  his  subjection  is  to  conquer.  45 

1  Lyly  refers  both  to  the  Persian  sun-worshippers  and  the  saying  of  Pompey,  "More  wor- 
ship the  rising  than  the  setting  sun." 

2  All  preceding  texts  read  'that  which.' 

8  Odyssey,  1 1.  4  Fear. 


sc.  i]  Alexander  and  Lampaspe  285 

Timo.    He  cannot  subdue  that  which  is  divine. 

Par.    Thebes  was  not. 

Tirno.    Vertue  is. 

Clytus.    Alexander,  as  hee  tendreth  T  vertue,  so  hee  will  you.    Hee 
drinketh   not   bloud,  but  thirsteth   after   honour;   hee   is  grecdie  of  50 
victoric,  but  never  satisfied  with  mercie  ;   in  fight  terrible,  as  becom- 
meth   a  captaine  ;   in  conquest   milde,  as  beseemeth   a  king  ;   in  all 
things2  than  which  nothing  can  be  greater,  hee  is  Alexander. 

Camp.    Then,   if  it  be  such  a  thing  to  be  Alexander,  I   hope   it 
shall  be  no   miserable  thing  to  be  a  virgin.      For,  if  hee  save  our  55 
honours,  it  is  more  than  to  restore  our  goods  ;  and  rather  doe  I  wish 
he  preserve  our  fame  than  our  lives  :   which  if  he  doe,  we  will  con- 
fesse  there  can  be  no  greater  thing  than  to  be  Alexander. 


\Enter  ALEXANDER  and  H 

Alex.    Clytus,  are  these  prisoners  ?      Of  whence  these  spoiles  ? 

Clytus.    Like  your  Majestic,4  they  are  prisoners,  and  of  Thebes.    60 

Alex.    Of  what  calling  or  reputation  ? 

Clytus.    I  know  not,  but  they  seeme  to  be  ladies  of  honour. 

Alex.    I   will   know.      Madam,  of  whence  you   are   I   know,  but 
who,  I  cannot  tell. 

Timo.    Alexander,  I  am   the  sister  of  Theagines,  who   fought  365 
battell  with  thy  father,  before  the  citie  of  Chieronie,5  where  he  died, 
I  say  —  which  none  can  gainsay  —  valiantly.6 

Alex.    Lady,  there  seeme  in  your  words  sparkes  of  your  brothers 
deedes,  but  worser  fortune   in   your  life  than  his  death  ;   but  feare 
not,  for  you  shall  live  without  violence,  enemies,  or  necessitie.    But  70 
what  are  you,  faire  ladie,  another  sister  to  Theagines  ? 

Camp.    No    sister    to  Theagines,  but  an   humble  hand-maid    to 
Alexander,  born  of  a  meane  parentage,  but  to  extreme  '  fortune. 

Alex.    Well,   ladies,  for  so   your  vertues    shew  you,  whatsoever 
your  births  be,  you  shall  be  honorably  entreated.      Athens  shall   be  75 
your  Thebes  ;   and  you  shall  not  be  as  abjects  of  warre,  but  as  sub- 

1  Esteems.  '-  In  all  things  he  is  that  than. 

8  Mentioned  in  North's  Plutarch,  Nutt,  IV.  345,  35  3>  380. 

4  If  it  like.      See  p.  327.  &  .SVV  A.  and  B.  ;    Bl.   'Chyeronte.' 

0  For  the  dramatic  story  of  Timoclea  and  the  original  of  this  speech   see    North's  I'luttirtb, 
Nutt,  IV.   310-11.  "  Worst  possible. 


286  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of  [ACT.  i 

jects  to  Alexander.  Parmenio,  conduct  these  honourable  ladies  into 
the  citie  ;  charge  the  souldiers  not  so  much  as  in  words  to  offer 
them  any  offence ;  and  let  all  wants  bee  supplied  so  farre  forth  as 
shall  be  necessarie  for  such  persons  and  my  prisoners. 

Exeunt  PAR  ME.  [MO]    &  captivi. 

Hephestion,1  it  resteth  now  that  wee  have  as  great  care  to  governe 
in  peace  as  conquer  in  warre,  that,  whilest  armes  cease,  arts  may 
flourish,  and,  joyning  letters  with  launces,  wee  endevour  to  bee  as 
good  philosophers  as  souldiers,  knowing  it  no  lesse  prayse  to  bee  wise 
than  commendable  to  be  valiant. 

Hep.  Your  Majestic  therein  sheweth  that  you  have  as  great  de- 
sire to  rule  as  to  subdue :  and  needs  must  that  commonwealtn  be 
fortunate  whose  captaine  is  a  philosopher,  and  whose  philusopner  a 
captaine.  Exeunt. 

Actus  primus.     Scaena  secunda2 

\_Enter~\  MANES,3  GRANICHUS,  PSYLLUS 

Manes.  I  serve  in  stead  of  a  master  a  mouse,4  whose  nouse  is  a 
tub,  whose  dinner  is  a  crust,  and  whose  bed  is  a  boord. 

Psyllus.  Then  art  thou  in  a  state  of  life  which  pnilosopners  com- 
mend :  a  crum  for  thy  supper,  an  hand  for  thy  cup,  and  thy  clothes 
for  thy  sheets  ;  for  Natura  paucis  contents. 

Gran.  Manes,  it  is  pitie  so  proper  a  mar,  snould  be  cast  away 
upon  a  philosopher;  but  that  Diogenes,  that  dogge,5  should  have 

1  Bl.  prints  this  as  the  name  of  the  speaker. 

2  The  market-place.      M. 

3  Diogenes  brought  to  Athens  an  attendant  of  this  nanio,  and  dismissed  him  for  the  reasons 
given  p.  296. 

4  Lyly  refers  blindly  to  the  following  :    "  Seeing  a  mouse  running  over  a  Room  and  consider- 


ing with  himself  that  it  neither  sought  for  a  Bed,  nor  was  arrr; 
desired  any  of  our  esteemed  Dainties,  he  contrived  a  way  to  re 
the  first,  as  some  think,  that  folded  in  the  Mantle,  because  h 
in  it."  Lives  of  Philosophers,  VI.,  402. 

u  The  constant  application  ot  the  epithet  "  Dog,"  to  Diogen 
Alexander  first  went  to  see  the  philosopher,  he  inrroduced  hir 
.irnamed  the  Great."  To  this  Diogenes  replied  :  "  And  I  arr 


d  to  be  alone  in  the  dark,  nor 

eve  his  own  Exigencies  ;   being 
necessity  obliged   him   to  sleep 

s  is  historically  correct.     When 
I   am  Alexander, 
Diogenes,  surnamed  the  Dog." 


The  Athenians  raised  a  pillar  of  Parian  marble,  surmounted  with  a  dog,  to  his  memon . 


sc.  n]  Alexander  and  Camp  asp  e  287 

Manes,  that  dog-bolt,1  it  grieveth  nature  and  spiteth  art :  the  one 
having  found  thee  so  dissolute  —  absolute2  I  would  say  —  in  bodie, 
the  other  so  single  —  singular  —  in  minde.  10 

Manes.  Are  you  merry  ?  It  is  a  signe  by  the  trip  of  your 
tongue  and  the  toyes  3  of  your  head  that  you  have  done  that  to  day 
which  I  have  not  done  these  three  dayes. 

Psyllus.    Whats  that  ? 

Manes.    Dined.  1 5 

Gran.    I  thinke  Diogenes  keepes  but  cold  cheare. 

Manes.  I  would  it  were  so ;  but  hee  keepeth  neither  hot  nor 
cold. 

Gran.  What  then,  luke  warme  ?  That  made  Manes  runne  from 
his  master  the  last  day.4  20 

Psyllus.    Manes  had  reason,  for  his  name  foretold  as  much. 

Manes.    My  name  ?      How  so,  sir  boy  ? 

Psyllus.  You  know  that  it  is  called  mons  a  movendo,  because  it 
stands  still. 

Manes.    Good.  25 

Psyllus.  And  thou  art  named  Manes  a  manendo,  because  thou 
runnest  away. 

Manes.    Passing  5  reasons  !   I  did  not  run  away,  but  retire. 

Psyllus.  To  a  prison,  because  thou  wouldst  have  leisure  to  con- 
template. 30 

Manes.  I  will  prove  that  my  bodie  was  immortall  because  it  was 
in  prison. 

Gran.    As  how  ? 

Manes.  Did  your  masters  never  teach  you  that  the  soule  is  im- 
mortall ?  35 

Gran.    Yes. 

Manes.    And  the  bodie  is  the  prison  of  the  soule. 

Gran.    True. 

Manes.  Why  then,  thus6  to  make  my  body  immortall,  I  put  it 
in  prison."  40 

Gran.    Oh,  bad  ! 

l  Currish  fellow.  2  Perfect.  8  Conceits.  *  Yesterday. 

6  Pun  :  surpassing,  running  by.  °  Bl.  prints  If  by  then,  this  ;   F.  thus. 

7  This  Socratic  method  foreshadows  Shakespeare's  clowns  and  pages. 


288  A  Tragical  I  Comedie  of          [ACT.  i 

Psyllus.    Excellent  ill! 

Manes.    You  may  see  how  dull  a  fasting  wit  is  :  therefore,  Psyllus, 
let  us  goe  to  supper  with  Granichus.      Plato  is  the  best  fellow  of  all 
philosophers:    give   me   him  that   reades l    in    the   morning    in  the  45 
schoole,  and  at  noone  in  the  kitchen. 

Psyllus.    And  me  ! 

Gran.    Ah,  sirs,  my  master  is  a  king  in  his  parlour  for  the  body, 
and  a  god  in  his  studie  for  the  soule.      Among  all  his  men  he  com- 
mendeth  one  that  is  an  excellent  musition  ;   then  stand  I  by  and  clap  50 
another  on  the  shoulder  and   say,  "This  is  a  passing  good   cooke." 

Manes.  It  is  well  done  Granichus  ;  for  give  mee  pleasure  that 
goes  in  at  the  mouth,  not  the  eare,  —  I  had  rather  fill  my  guts 
than  my  braines. 

Psyllus.  I  serve  Apelles,  who  feedeth  mee  as  Diogenes  doth  55 
Manes  ;  for  at  dinner  the  one  preacheth  abstinence,  the  other  com- 
mendeth  counterfaiting2 :  when  I  would  eate  meate,  he  paints  a3 
spit ;  and  when  I  thirst,  "  O,"  saith  he,  "  is  not  this  a  faire  pot  ?  " 
and  pointes  to  a  table4  which  containes  the  Banquet  of  the  Gods, 
where  are  many  dishes  to  feed  the  eye,  but  not  to  fill  the  gut.  60 

Gran.    What  doest  thou  then  ? 

Psyllus.  This  doth  hee  then  :  bring  in  many  examples  that  some 
have  lived  by  savours  ;  and  proveth  that  much  easier  it  is  to  fat  by 
colours  ;  and  telles  of  birdes  that  have  been  fatted  by  painted  grapes 
in  winter,  and  how  many  have  so  fed  their  eyes  with  their  mis-  65 
tresse  picture  that  they  never  desired  to  take  food,  being  glutted 
with  the  delight  in  their  favours.5  Then  doth  he  shew  me  counter- 
feites,  —  such  as  have  surfeited,  with  their  filthy  and  lothsome  vom- 
ites ;  and  the  riotous6  Bacchanalls  of  the  god  Bacchus  and  his 
disorderly  crew  ;  which  are  painted  all  to  the  life  in  his  shop.  To  70 
conclude,  I  fare  hardly,  though  I  goe  richly,  which  maketh  me 
when  I  should  begin  to  shadow  a  ladies  face,  to  draw  a  lambs  head, 
and  sometime  to  set  to  the  body  of  a  maid  a  shoulder  of  mutton, 
for  Semper  animus  meus  est  in  patinis." 

1  '  Redes,'  teaches.  3  Bl.  omits  a.          6  Countenances. 

2  Pun  :   painting,  substituting  false  for  real.  *  Picture. 

6  Preceding  texts  read:   And  iv'nb  the  riotous;  tuitb  printer's  repetition. 

7  Terence,  Eunucbus,  8  1 6. 


sc.  n]  Alexander  and  Camp  as pe  289 

Manes.  Thou  art  a  god  to  nice;  for,  could  I  see  but  a  cookcs  75 
shop  painted,  I  would  make  mine  eyes  fatte  as  butter,  for  I  have 
nought  but  sentences  to  fill  my  maw  :  as,  Plures  occidit  crapula  quam 
g/adius;  Mitsa  jfjunantibus  arnica;  Repletion  killeth  delicatly;  and  an 
old  saw  of  abstinence  by1  Socrates,  —  The  belly  is  the  heads  grave. 
Thus  with  sayings,  not  with  meatc,  he  maketh  a  gallimafray.a  80 

Gran.      But  how  doest  thou  then  live  ? 

Manes.    With  fine  jests,  sweet  ayre,  and  the  dogs3  almes. 

Gran.    Well,  for  this  time  I  will  stanch  thy  gut,  and  among  pots 
and  platters  thou  shalt  see  what  it  is  to  serve  Plato. 

Psyllus.    For  joy  of  it,  Granichus,  lets  sing.  85 

Manes.    My  voice  is  as  cleare  in  the  evening  as  in  the  morning.4 

Gran.    An  other  commoditie  of  emptines  ! 

SONG5 

Gran.    O  for  a  bowle  of  fatt  canary, 
Rich  Palermo,  sparkling  sherry, 

Some  nectar  else6  from  Juno's  daiery  :  90 

O  these  draughts  would  make  us  merry  ! 

Psil.    O  for  a  wench  !   (I  deale  in  faces, 
And  in  other  dayntier  things,) 
Tickled  am  I  with  her  embraces,— 
Fine  dancing  in  such  fairy  ringes.  95 

Ma.    O  for  a  plump  fat  leg  of  mutton, 
Veale,  lambe,  capon,  pigge,  and  conney  !  7 
None  is  happy  but  a  glutton  ; 
None  an  asse  but  who  wants  money. 

Ch.    Wines,  indeed,  and  girls  are  good,  100 

But  brave  victuals  feast  the  bloud  : 
For  wenches,  wine,  and  lusty  cheere, 
Jove  would  leape  down  to  surtet  heerc.  [£.m////.] 

1  "  All  the  old  editions  omit  b\  ;  it  appears  in  Dodslcy,  and  a  sixteenth-century  hand  in- 
serted it  in  ink  in  a  copy  of  the  third  edition,  now  in  the  Garrick  collection."     M. 

2  Hash.  3  Diogenes.  4  Referring  to  the  bad  effect  on  the  voice  of  eating  just  before 
singing.       &  Bl.  first  gave  the  songs.      In  Bl.  'Granicus'  is  below  '  Song.'     °  Besides.     7  RaliHt. 


290  j4  Tragical/  Comedie  of          [ACT.  i 

Actus  primus.     Scaena  tertia  1 

\_Enter~\    MELIPPUS  2 

Melip.  I  had  never  such  adoe  to  warne  schollcrs  to  come  before 
a  king!  First  I  came  to  Crisippus,  a  tall,  leane  old  mad  man, 
willing  him  presently  to  appeare  before  Alexander.  Hee  stood  star- 
ing on  my  face,  neither  moving  his  eyes  nor  his  body.  I  urging 
him  to  give  some  answer,  hee  tooke  up  a  booke,  sate  downe,  and  5 
saide  nothing.  Melissa,  his  maide,  told  mee  it  was  his  manner,  and 
that  oftentimes  shee  was  fain  to  thrust  meat  into  his  mouth,  for  that 
he  would  rather  starve  than  cease  studie.  Well,  thought  I,  seeing 

*  O  •*  O 

bookish  men  are  so  blockish  and  great  clearkes  such  simple  courtiers, 
I  will  neither  be   partaker  of  their  commons  nor  their  commenda-  10 
tions.      From  thence  I  came  to  Plato  and  to  Aristotle  3  and  to  divers 
other ;   none  refusing  to  come,  saving  an  olde,  obscure  fellow,  who, 
sitting  in  a  tub  turned  towardes  the  sunne,  read  Greeke  to  a  young 
boy.      Him  when  I  willed  to  appeare  before  Alexander,  he  answered, 
"  If  Alexander  would  faine  see  mee,  let  him  come  to  mee  ;  if  learne  15 
of  me,  let   him   come  to   mee;   whatsoever   it  be,  let   him  come  to 
me."      "Why,"   said   I,  "he   is   a  king."      He  answered,  "Why, 
I   am  a    philosopher."      "  Why,  but    he  is   Alexander."      "  I  ;    but 
I  am   Diogenes."       I   was   halfe  angry   to    see  one  so  crooked   in 
his   shape   to  bee   so   crabbed   in   his   sayings ;   so,   going   my   way,  2O 
I  said,  "  Thou   shalt  repent  it,  if  thou   comest   not   to  Alexander." 
"  Nay,"   smiling  answered   hee,  "  Alexander  may   repent  it   if  hee 
come    not    to    Diogenes :    vertue    must    bee    sought,   not    offered." 
And  so,  turning  himselfe  to  his  cell,  hee  grunted   I   know  not  what, 
like  a  pig  under  a  tub.      But  I  must  bee  gone,  the  philosophers  are  25 
comming.  Exit. 

1  Alexander's  Palace.     M.    The   first   part  might  he  there,  but  the   portion   with    Diogenes 
belongs  in  some  public  place  through  which  the  philosophers  pass,  returning  from  the  palace. 

2  Bl.  adds  here  the  names  of  all  who  enter  during  the  scene. 

8  From  Plutarch's  account  of  Aristotle  (Alexander ,  IV.,  304-306,  363),  Lyly  borrows 
only  the  idea  that  Alexander,  suspecting  Aristotle  of  treasonable  designs,  withdrew  some  ot  his 
friendliness. 


sc.  in]          Alexander  and  Campaspe  291 

[Enter  PLATO,   ARISTOTLE,   CRYSIPPUS,   CRATES,   CLEANTHES,   and 
ANAXARCHUS  '] 

Plato.  It  is  a  difficult  controversie,  Aristotle,  and  rather  to  be 
wondred  at  than  beleeved,  how  natural  causes  should  worke  super- 
naturall  effects. 

Aris.    I  do  not  so  much  stand  upon  the  apparition  is  scene  in  the  30 
moone,2  neither   the    Demonium   of    Socrates,  as  that   I   cannot   by 
naturall  reason  give  any  reason  of  the  ebbing  and  flowing  of  the 
sea  ;  which  makes  me  in  the  depth  of  my  studies  to  crie  out,  O  ens 
entium,  miserere  met. 

Plato.    Cleanthes  and  you  attribute  so  much  to  nature  by  search-  35 
ing  for  things  which  are  not  to  be  found,  that,  whilest  you  studie  a 
cause  of  your  owne,3  you  omitt  the  occasion  it  selfe.      There   is  no 
man  so  savage  in  whom  resteth  not  this  divine  particle  :  that  there  is 
an  omnipotent,  eternall,  and  divine  mover,  which  may  be  called  God. 

Cleant.    I  am  of  this    minde  :   that  that   first   mover,  which  you  40 
terme  God,  is  the  instrument  of  all  the  movings  which  we  attribute 
to  nature.4      The    earth,  which   is  masse,  swimmeth5  on   the  sea, 
seasons  divided    in    themselves,   fruits  growing    in    themselves,  the 
majestic  of  the  skie,  the  whole  firmament  of  the  world,  and  what- 
soever else  appeareth   miraculous,  —  what  man    almost   of   meane45 
capacitie  but  can  prove  it  natural  ? 

Anax.  These  causes  shall  be  debated  at  our  philosophers  feast, 
in  which  controversie  I  will  take  part  with  Aristotle  that  there  is 
Natura  naturansf  and  yet  not  God. 

Cra.    And  I  with  Plato  that  there   is  Deus  optimus  maximus,  and  50 
not  nature. 

\_Enter  ALEXANDER,  attended  by  HEPHESTION,  PARMENIO,   and  CLYTUS] 

Aris.    Here  commeth  Alexander. 

Alex.  I  see,  Hephestion,  that  these  philosophers  are  here  attend- 
ing for  us. 

1  For  his  relations  with  Alexander  and  Clitus,  see  North's  Plutarch,  IV.,  359-360. 

2  See  Prologue,  Endimion.  3  A  theoretical  cause. 

*  The  preceding  seven  lines  roughly  sum  up  the  contrasting  opinions  of  Plato  and  Aristotle 
on  physical  matters. 

^  '  The  earth  which  as  a  masse  swimmeth,'  or  '  The  earth,  which  is  a  masse,  swimming  '  ? 
ti  Nature  that  is  a  creative  energy. 


292  A  Tragic  all  Comedie  of          [ACT.  i 

Hep.    They  are  not  philosophers  if  they  know  J  not  their  duties.  55 

Alex.    But  I  much  mervaile  Diogenes  should  bee  so  dogged. 

Hep.  I  doe  not  thinke  but  his  excuse  will  be  better  than  Melip- 
pus  message. 

Alex.    I  will  goe  see  him,  Hephestion,  because  I  long  to  see  him 
that  would  command  Alexander  to  come,  to  whom  all  the  world   is  60 
like  to  come. — Aristotle  and  the  rest,  sithence  my  comming  from 
Thebes  to  Athens,  from  a  place  of  conquest  to  a  pallace  of2  quiet, 
I  have  resolved  with  my  selfe  in  my  court  to  have  as  many  philoso- 
phers as  I  had  in  my  camp  souldiers.      My  court  shal  be  a  schoole 
wherein  I  wil   have  used  as  great  doctrine3   in  peace  as   I   did   in  65 
warre  discipline. 

Arh.  We  are  all  here  ready  to  be  commanded,  and  glad  we  are 
that  we  are  commanded,  for  that  nothing  better  becommeth  kings 
than  literature,  which  maketh  them  come  as  neare  to  the  gods  in 
wisdome  as  they  doe  in  dignitie.  70 

Alex.  It  is  so,  Aristotle,  but  yet  there  is  among  you,  yea  and  of 
your  bringing  up,  that  sought  to  destroy  Alexander,  —  Calistenes,4 
Aristotle,  whose  treasons  against  his  prince  shall  not  be  borne  out 
with  the  reasons  of  his  philosophic. 

Arts.    If  ever  mischief  entred   into  the   heart  of  Calistenes,  let  75 
Calistenes   suffer  for  it ;   but  that  Aristotle  ever  imagined  any  such 
thing  of  Calistenes,  Aristotle  doth  denie. 

Alex.  Well,  Aristotle,  kindred  may  blinde  thee,  and  affection  me  ; 
but  in  kings  causes  I  will  not  stand  to  schollers  arguments.  This 
meeting  shal  be  for  a  commandement  that  you  all  frequent  my  &o 
court,  instruct  the  young  with  rules,5  confirme  the  olde  with  reasons  : 
let  your  lives  bee  answerable  to  your  learnings,  least  my  proceedings 
be  contrary  to  my  promises. 

Hep.  You  said  you  would  aske  every  one  of  them  a  question 
which  yesternight  none  of  us  could  answere.6  85 

1  C.  kneiut.  2  Bl.  omits  of.  3  Instruction. 

4  Alexander  "  plainly  shewed  the  ill  will  he  bare  unto  Aristotle,  for  that  Callisthenea  had 
bene  brought  up  with  him,  being  his  kinsman,  and  the  son  of  Hero,  Aristotle's  neece."      For 
the  charges  against  the  philosopher  Callisthenes,  see  North's  Plutarch,  Nutt,  IV.,  359-363. 

5  Bl.  rulers,  the  quartos  'rules.' 

6  The  following  six  questions  and  answers  Lyly  selects  from   nine  in  an  interview  of  Alex- 
ander with  ten  wise  men  of  India.      North's  Plutarch,  Nutt,  IV.,  372-373. 


sc.  in]          Alexander  and  Campaspe  293 

Alex.    I  will.     Plato,  of  all  beasts  which  is  the  subtilest  ? 

Plato.    That  which  man  hitherto  never  knew. 

Alex.    Aristotle,  how  should  a  man  be  thought  a  god  ? 

Arts.    In  doing  a  thing  unpossible  for  a  man. 

Alex.    Crisippus,  which  was  first,  the  day  or  the  night  ?  go 

?r/V.    The  day,  by  a  day. 

ilex.    Indeede,    strange    questions    must    have   strange  answers. 
Cleanthes,  what  say  you,  is  life  or  death  the  stronger  ? 

Cle.    Life,  that  suffereth  so  many  troubles. 

Alex.    Crates,  how  long  should  a  man  live  ?  95 

Crates.    Till  hee  thinke  it  better  to  die  than  to  live. 

Alex.  Anaxarchus,  whether  doth  the  sea  or  the  earth  bring  forth 
most  creatures  ? 

Anax.    The  earth,  for  the  sea  is  but  a  part  of  the  earth. 

Alex.    Hephestion,  me  thinkes  they  have  answered  all  well,  and  100 
in  such  questions  I  meane  often  to  trie  them. 

Hep.  It  is  better  to  have  in  your  court  a  wise  man  than  in  your 
ground  a  golden  mine.  Therefore  would  I  leave  war,  to  study 
wisdom,  were  I  Alexander. 

Alex.    So  would  I,  were  I   Hephestion.1     But  come,  let   us  goe  105 
and  give  release,  as  I  promised,  to  our  Theban  thralls.2 

Exeunt  \_Alexander,  Hephestion,  Parmenio,  and  Clytus.  ] 

Plato.  Thou  art  fortunate,  Aristotle,  that  Alexander  is  thy 
scholler. 

Arts.    And  all  you  happy  that  he  is  your  soveraigne. 

Crisip.    I  could  like  the  man  well,  if  he  could  be  contented  to  no 
bee  but  a  man. 

Arts.  He  seeketh  to  draw  neere  to  the  gods  in  knowledge,  not 
to  be  a  god.  [Enter  DiocENEs.3]  "• 

Plato.    Let  us  question  a  little  with  Diogenes  why  he  went  not 

1  Alexander  really  spoke  thus  to  Parmenio,  but  under  very  different  circumstances.    North's 
Plutarch,  Nutt,  IV.,  332-333. 

2  Bl.  thrall. 

3  Neither  the  quartos  nor  Bl.  mark  this  entrance.      In  the  Garrick  copy  of  C.  a  contem- 
porary of  Lyly,  W.  Neile,  noted  it  in  ink.      If  Diogenes  enters  here,  he  goes  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  stage.      The  philosophers  at  once  cross  to  him.      Possibly  he  comes  on  at  any  time 
during  the  preceding  dialogue,  and  going  quietly  to  his  part  of  the  stage,  waits  till  the   philoso- 
phers see  him  and  cross. 


294  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of  [ACT.  i 

with  us  to  Alexander.      Diogenes,  thou  didst  forget  thy  duety,  that  115 
thou  wentst  not  with  us  to  the  king. 

Diog.    And  you  your  profession  that  went  to  the  king. 

Plato.  Thou  takest  as  great  pride  to  be  peevish  as  others  do  glory 
to  be  vertuous. 

Diog.    And    thou   as   great   honour,   being   a    philosopher,    to   be  120 
thought  court-like,  as  others  shame,  that  be  courtiers,  to  be  accounted 
philosophers. 

Aris.  These  austere  manners  set  aside,  it  is  well  knowne  that 
thou  didst  counterfeite  money.1 

Diog.    And  thou  thy  manners,  in  that  thou  didst  not  counterfeite  125 
money.2 

Aris.  Thou  hast  reason  to  contemne  the  court,  being  both  in 
bodie  and  minde  too  crooked  for  a  courtier. 

Diog.  As  good  be  crooked  and  indevour  to  make  my  selfe  straight, 
from  the  court,  as  bee  straight  and  learne  to  be  crooked  at  the  court.  130 

Cris.    Thou  thinkest  it  a  grace  to  be  opposite  against  Alexander. 

Diog.    And  thou  to  be  jump  with  Alexander. 

Anax.  Let  us  goe,  for  in  contemning  him  we  shal  better  please 
him  than  in  wondering  at  him. 

Aris.    Plato,  what  doest  thou  thinke  of  Diogenes  ?  jor 

Plato.    To  be  Socrates  furious.3     Let  us  go.          Exeunt  Pbilosopbi. 
^Diogenes  moves  about  with  a  lantern  as  if  seeking  something.^ 

\Enter~\  PSYLLUS,  MANES,  [and~\  GRANicHus.4 

Psyllus.  Behold,  Manes,  where  thy  master  is,  seeking  either  for 
bones  for  his  dinner  or  pinnes  for  his  sleeves.  I  will  goe  salute 
him. 

Manes.    Doe  so;   but  mum,  not  a  word  that  you  saw  Manes!        140 
Gran.    Then  stay  thou  behinde,  and  I  will  goe  with  Psyllus. 

[Manes  stands  apart.  ] 

1  See  Lives  of  Philosophers,-  1696,  401. 

2  "  You  pretend  to  be  better  than  you  are,  for  you  do  not  at  heart  object  to  counterfeiting," 
or,  possibly,  "  Since  you  do  not  gain  money  by  counterfeiting,  you  live  falsely,  for  you  have  no 
adequate  means  of  support." 

8  Mad. 

4  Editors,  following  Bl.,  have  made  the  second  act  begin  here,  but  would  Diogenes  go  out 
only  to  come  on  at  once?  Bl.  printed  '  Diogenes,  Psyllus,'  etc.  To  the  stage  direction  M. 
adds  '  And  Citizens.' 


sc.  in]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  295 

Psyllus.    All  hayle,  Diogenes,  to  your  proper  person. 

Diog.    All  hate  to  thy  peevish  conditions. 

Gran.    O  dogge  ! 

Psyllus.    What  doest  thou  seeke  for  here  ?  145 

Diog.    For  a  man  and  a  beast. 

Gran.    That  is  easie  without  thy  light  to  bee  found  :  be  not  all 
these  men  ? 1 

Diog.    Called  men. 

Gran.    What  beast  is  it  thou  lookest  for?  150 

Diog.    The  beast  my  man  Manes. 

Psyllus.    Hee  is  a  beast  indeed  that  will  serve  thee. 

Diog.    So  is  he  that  begat  thee. 

Gran.    What  wouldest  thou  do,  if  thou  shouldst  find  Manes  ? 

Diog.    Give  him  leave  to  doe  as  hee  hath  done  before.  155 

Gran.    What's  that  ? 

Diog.    To  run  away. 

Psyllus.    Why,  hast  thou  no  neede  of  Manes  ? 

Diog.    It  were  a  shame  for  Diogenes  to  have  neede  of  Manes 
and  for  Manes  to  have  no  neede  of  Diogenes.2  160 

Gran.    But  put  the  case  he  were  gone,  wouldst  thou  entertaine 
any  of  us  two  ? 

Diog.    Upon  condition. 

Psyllus.    What? 

Diog.    That  you  should  tell  me  wherefore  any  of  you  both  were  165 
good. 

Gran.    Why,  I  am  a  scholler  and  well  scene  in  philosophy. 

Psyllus.    And  I  a  prentice  and  well  scene  in  painting. 

Diog.    Well  then,  Granichus,  be  thou  a  painter  to  amend  thine 
ill   face;    and   thou,   Psyllus,  a  philosopher  to  correct   thine   evilli70 
manners.      But  who  is  that  ?      Manes  ? 

Manes  [coming  forward  slowly} .    I  care  not  who  I  were,  so  I  were 
not  Manes. 

Gran.    You  are  taken  tardie. 

Psyllus.    Let  us  slip  aside,  Granichus,  to  see  the  salutation   be-  175 
tweene  Manes  and  his  master.  \Tbey  draw  back.~\ 

1  This  line  is  Lyly's  rather  vague  reference  to  the  search  of  Diogenes  for  an  honest  man. 

2  Almost  the  words  of  Diogenes.      See  Lives  of  Philosophers)  VI.,  423. 


296         A  Tragical!  Comedie  of     [ACT.  i.  sc.  m] 

Dlog.  Manes,  thou  knowest  the  last  day  *  I  threw  away  my  dish, 
to  drinke  in  my  hand,  because  it  was  superfluous ; 2  now  I  am 
determined  to  put  away  my  man  and  serve  my  selfe,  quia  non  egeo 
tut  vel  te.  1 80 

Manes.  Master,  you  know  a  while  agoe  I  ran  away  ;  so  doe  I 
meane  to  doe  againe,  quia  scio  tibl  non  esse  argentum. 

Dlog.  I  know  I  have  no  money,  neither  will  I  3  have  ever  a  man, 
tor  I  was  resolved  long  sithence  to  put  away  both  my  slaves, — 
money  and  Manes.  185 

Manes.    So  was   I   determined    to    shake  off4   both   my   dogges, 
—  hunger  and  Diogenes. 

Psyllus.    O  sweet  consent5  betweene  a  crowde6  and  a  Jewes  harpe  ! 

Gran.    Come,  let  us  reconcile  them. 

Psyllus.    It  shall  not  neede,  for  this  is  their  use:   now  doe  they  190 
dine  one  upon  another.  Exit  Diogenes. 

Gran,  \_coming  fonvard  with  Psyllus].  How  now,  Manes,  art  thou 
gone  from  thy  master  ? 

Manes.    No,  I  did  but  now  binde  my  selfe  to  him. 

Psyllus.    Why,  you  were  at  mortall  jarres  !  195 

Manes.    In  faith,  no  ;   we  brake  a  bitter  jest  one  upon  another. 

Gran.    Why,  thou  art  as  dogged  as  he. 

Psyllus.    My  father  knew  them  both  little  whelps. 

Manes.    Well,  I  will  hie  me  after  my  master. 

Gran.    Why,  is  it  supper  time  with  Diogenes  ?  2OO 

Manes.    I,  with  him  at  all  time  when  he  hath  meate. 

Psyllus.  Why  then,  every  man  to  his  home  ;  and  let  us  steale 
out  againe  anone. 

Gran.    Where  shall  we  meete  ? 

Psyllus.    Why  at  Alae~  vendibtli  suspensa  haedera  non  est  opus.  205 

Manes.    O  Psyllus,  habeo  te  loco  parentis  ;   thou  blessest  me. 

Exeunt. 

1  Yesterday. 

-  "  Seeing  once  a  little   Boy  drinking  Water  out  of  the  Hollow  of  his  Hand,  he  took  his 
little  Dish  out  of  his  Scrip,  and  threw  it  away,   saying:  This  little  boy  hath  out-done  me  in 
frugality."  — -Lives  of  Philosophers,  VI.,  412. 

3  Bl.  omits  /.      The  quartos  give  it. 

*  Preceding  editions  «//. 

5  "  In  old  musical  treatises  harmony  is  frequently  termed  a  consent  of  instruments. "  F. 

6  Fiddle.  7  Bl.  a/a.      M.  corrects. 


ACT.  ii.  sc.  i]       Alexander  and  Campaspe       297 
Actus  secundus.1     Scaena  prima.2 

ALEXANDER,   HEPHESTION,    [and~\   PAGE.3 

Alex.  Stand  aside,  sir  boy,  till  you  be  called.  [The  Page  stands 
aside.~\  Hephestion,  how  doe  you  like  the  sweet  face  of  Campaspe? 

Hep.    I  cannot  but  commende  the  stout  courage  of  Timoclea. 

Alex.  Without  doubt  Campaspe  had  some  great  man  to  her 
father.  5 

Hep.    You  know  Timoclea  had  Theagines  to  her  brother. 

Alex.    Timoclea  still  in  thy  mouth  !      Art  thou  not  in  love  ? 

Hep.    Not  I. 

Alex.    Not  with  Timoclea,  you  meane.      Wherein  you  resemble 
the   lapwing,  who   crieth   most   where  her  nest   is   not.4     And  so  10 
you  lead   me  from  espying  your  love  with  Campaspe,  —  you  crie 
Timoclea. 

Hep.    Could  I  as  well  subdue  kingdomes  as  I  can  my  thoughts, 
or  were  I  as  farre  from  ambition  as  I  am  from  love,  all  the  world 
would  account  mee  as  valiant  in  armes  as  I  know  my  selfe  moder-  15 
ate  in  affection. 

Alex.    Is  love  a  vice  ? 

Hep.    It  is  no  vertue. 

Alex.  Well,  now  shalt  thou  see  what  small  difference  I  make 
between  Alexander  and  Hephestion.  And,  sith  thou  hast  been  20 
alwaies  partaker  of  my  triumphes,  thou  shalt  bee  partaker  of  my 
torments.  I  love,  Hephestion,  I  love!  I  love  Campaspe,  —  a 
thing  farre  unfit  for  a  Macedonian,  for  a  king,  for  Alexander. 
Why  hangest  thou  downe  thy  head,  Hephestion,  blushing  to  heare 
that  which  I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell  ?  25 

Hep.  iMight  my  words  crave  pardon  and  my  counsell  credit,  I 
would  both  discharge  the  duetie  of  a  subject,  for  so  I  am,  and  the 
office  of  a  friend,  for  so  I  will. 

Alex.  Speake  Hephestion  ;  for,  whatsoever  is  spoken,  Hephestion 
speaketh  to  Alexander.  30 

1  The  Market-place.      M.  8  Bl.  added  '  Diogenes,  Apelles.' 

2  Preceding  editions,  Sctfna  Stcunda.      *  See  Epistle  Dcdicatoric,  Eupbucs  and  Ais  England. 


298  A  Tragic  all  Comedie  of         [ACT.  n 

Hep.  I  cannot  tell,  Alexander,  whether  the  report  be  more  shame- 
full  to  be  heard  or  the  cause  sorrowful  to  be  beleeved  ?  What,  is 
the  son  of  Philip,  king  of  Macedon,  become  the  subject  of  Cam- 
paspe,  the  captive  of  Thebes  ?  Is  that  minde  whose  greatnes  the 
world  could  not  containe  drawn  within  the  compasse  of  an  idle,  35 
alluring  eie  ?  Wil  you  handle  the  spindle  with  Hercules 1  when 
you  should  shake  the  speare  with  Achilles  ?  Is  the  warlike  sound 
of  drum  and  trump  turned  to  the  soft  noise  of  lyre  and  lute,  the 
neighing  of  barbed2  steeds,  whose  lowdnes  filled  the  aire  with  ter- 
rour  and  whose  breathes  dimmed  the  sun  with  smoake,  converted  1040 
delicate  tunes  and  amorous  glances  ? 3  O  Alexander,  that  soft  and 
yeelding  minde  should  not  bee  in  him  whose  hard  and  unconquerd 
heart  hath  made  so  many  yeeld.  But  you  love  !  Ah  griefe  !  But 
whom  ?  Campaspe.  Ah  shame  !  A  maide,  forsooth,  unknowne, 
unnoble,  —  and  who  can  tell  whether  immodest?  —  whose  eyes  are 45 
framed  by  art  to  enamour,  and  whose  heart  was  made  by  nature  to 
enchant.  I,  but  shee  is  beautifull.  Yea,  but  not  therefore  chaste. 
I,  but  she  is  comely  in  all  parts  of  the  bodie.  But  shee  may  bee 
crooked  in  some  part  of  the  minde.  I,  but  shee  is  wise.  Yea,  but 
she  is  a  woman.  Beautie  is  like  the  blackberry,  which  seemeth  50 
red  when  it  is  not  ripe,  —  resembling  precious  stones  that  are  pol- 
ished with  honie,4  which  the  smoother  they  looke,  the  sooner  they 
breake.  It  is  thought  wonderfull  among  the  sea-men,  that  mugill,5 
of  all  fishes  the  swiftest,  is  found  in  the  belly  of  the  bret,6  of  all 
the  slowest:  and  shall  it  not  seeme  monstrous  to  wise  men  that  the  5 5 
heart  of  the  greatest  conquerour  of  the  world  should  be  found  in  the 
hands  of  the  weakest  creature  of  nature,  —  of  a  woman,  of  a  captive  ? 
Hermyns  have  faire  skins,  but  foule  livers  ;  sepulchres  fresh  colours, 

1  Ovid,  Fasti,  II.  305.  2  Horses  covered  with  defensive  armor. 

8  Did  this  suggest  :  — 

"  Grim-visaged  war  hath  smooth'd  his  wrinkled  front; 
And  now,  — instead  of  mounting  barbed  steeds 
To  fright  the  souls  of  fearful  adversaries,  — 
He  capers  nimbly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  pleasing  of  a  lute!  "—  Rich.  III.  I.  I.       Do. 

4  "  All  precious  stones  in  general  are   improved    in   brilliancy  by  being    boiled    in  honey, 
Corsican  honey  more  particularly."  —  Hist,  of  JVurld,  XXXVII.  74.      Bohn. 

6  Mullet.  6  Cornish  for  brill  and  turbot. 


sc.  i]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  299 

but  rotten  bones ;  women  faire  faces,  but  false  hearts.      Remember, 
Alexander,  thou  hast  a  campe  to  governe,  not  a  chamber.      Fall  not  60 
from  the  armour  of  Mars  to  the  armes  of  Venus,  from  the  fierie 
assaults  of  warre  to  the  maidenly  skirmishes  of  love,  from  display- 
ing the  eagle  in  thine  ensigne  to  set  downe  the  sparrow.      I  sigh, 
Alexander,   that,   where   fortune   could    not   conquer,  folly    should 
overcome.     But  behold  all  the  perfection  that  may  bee  in  Campaspe  :  65 
a  haire  curling  by  nature,  not  art ;  sweete  alluring  eyes  ;  a  faire  face 
made  in  despite  of  Venus ;  and  a  stately  port  in  disdaine  of  Juno ;  a 
wit  apt  to  conceive  and  quicke  to  answere;  a  skinne  as  soft  as  silke 
and  as  smooth  as  jet ;  a  long  white  hand  ;  a  fine  little  foot,  —  to 
conclude,  all  parts  answerable  to  the  best  part.      What  of  this  ?  70 
Though  she  have  heavenly  gifts,  vertue  and  beautie,  is  shee  not  of 
earthly  metall,  flesh  and  bloud  ?     You,  Alexander,  that  would  be  a 
god,  shew  your  selfe  in  this  worse  than  a  man,  so  soone  to  be  both 
overseene  and  over-taken1  in  a  woman,  whose  false  teares  know  their 
true  times,  whose  smooth  words  wound  deeper  than  sharpe  swords.  75 
There  is  no  surfet  so  dangerous  as  that  of  honie,  nor  any  poyson  so 
deadly  as  that  of  love :   in  the  one  physicke  cannot  prevaile,  nor  in 
the  other  counsell. 

Alex.  My  case  were  light,  Hephestion,  and  not  worthy  to  be 
called  love,  if  reason  were  a  remedie,  or  sentences  could  salve  that  80 
sense  cannot  conceive.  Little  do  you  know  and  therefore  sleightly 
doe  you  regard  the  dead  embers  in  a  private  person  or  live  coales  in 
a  great  prince,  whose  passions  and  thoughts  doe  as  farre  exceed 
others  in  extremitie  as  their  callings  doe  in  majestie.  An  eclipse  in 
the  sunne  is  more  than  the  falling  of  a  starre  :  none  can  conceive  85 
the  torments  of  a  king,  unlesse  he  be  a  king,  whose  desires  are  not 
inferiour  to  their  dignities.  And  then  judge,  Hephestion,  if  the 
agonies  of  love  be  dangerous  in  a  subject,  whether  they  be  not  more 
than  deadly  unto  Alexander,  whose  deepc  and  not  to  bee  conceived 
sighes  cleave  the  heart  in  shivers,  whose  wounded  thoughts  can  90 
neither  be  expressed  nor  endured.  Cease  then,  Hephestion,  with 
arguments  to  seeke  to  refell2  that  which  with  their  deitie  the  gods 
cannot  resist ;  and  let  this  suffice  to  answere  thee,  —  that  it  is  a  king 
that  loveth,  and  Alexander,  whose  affections  are  not  to  bee  meas- 

1  "  Deceived  and  intoxicated  with  unreasoning  affection."      F.  2  Refute. 


300  A  Tragical  I  Comedie  of          [ACT.  n 

ured  by  reason,  being  immortall,  nor,  I  feare  me,  to  be  borne,  being    95 
intolerable. 

Hep.  I  must  needs  yeeld,  when  neither  reason  nor  counsell  can 
bee  heard. 

Alex.  Yeeld,  Hephestion,  for  Alexander  doth  love,  and  therefore 
must  obtaine.  100 

Hep.  Suppose  shee  loves  not  you  r  Affection  commeth  not  by 
appointment  or  birth  ;  and  then  as  good  hated  as  enforced. 

Alex.    I  am  a  king,  and  will  command. 

Hep.  You  may,  to  yeeld  to  lust  by  force,  but  to  consent  to  love 
by  feare,  you  cannot.  105 

Alex.  Why  ?  What  is  that  which  Alexander  may  not  conquer 
as  he  list  ? 

Hep.  Why,  that  which  you  say  the  gods  cannot  resist, — 
love. 

Alex.    I  am  a  conquerour,  shee  a  captive;  I  as  fortunate  as  shee  110 
faire  :   my  greatnesse.may  answere  her  wants,  and  the  gifts  of  my 
minde  the  modestie  of  hers.      Is  it  not  likely,  then,  that  she  should 
love  ?      Is  it  not  reasonable  ? 

Hep.  You  say  that  in  love  there  is  no  reason  ;  and,  therefore, 
there  can  be  no  likelyhood.  115 

Alex.  No  more,  Hephestion  !  In  this  case  I  will  use  mine  own 
counsell,  and  in  all  other  thine  advice  :  thou  mayst  be  a  good  soul- 
dier,  but  never  good  lover.  Call  my  page.  [  The  Page  comes  forward.~\ 
Sirrah,  goe  presently  to  Apelles  and  will  him  to  come  to  me  without 
cither  delay  or  excuse.  i  20 

Page.    I  goe.  [Exit. ] 

Alex.  In  the  meane  season,  to  recreate  my  spirits,  being  so 
neere,  wee  will  goe  see  Diogenes.  And  see  where  his  tub  is.1 
[Crosses  stage.~\  Diogenes! 

Dlog.    Who  calleth  ?  125 

Alex.  Alexander.  How  happened  it  that  you  would  not  come 
;>ut  of  your  tub  to  my  palace?2 

1  During  the  preceding  dialogue  Diogenes  has  probably  tome  in  with  his  tub.      Going  to  a 
remote  part  of  the  stage,  lie  has  put  it  down  and  crawled  into  it. 

2  For  the  original   of  this   scene  and  for  some  of  the  speeches,  see  North's  Plutarch,  IV. 
311-312,  Nutt  j   see  also  Lives  of  Pbi/osofbcrs,  VI.  413. 


sc.  i]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  301 

Diog.    Because  it  was  as   farre  from   my  tub  to  your  palace  as 
from  your  palace  to  my  tub. 

Alex.    Why  then,  doest  thou  owe  no  reverence  to  kings  ?  130 

Diog.    No. 

Alex.    Why  so? 

Diog.    Because  they  be  no  gods. 

Alex.    They  be  gods  of  the  earth. 

Diog.    Yea,  gods  of  earth.  135 

Alex.    Plato  is  not  of  thy  minde. 

Diog.    I  am  glad  of  it. 

Alex.    Why? 

Diog.    Because   I    would    have    none    of    Diogenes    minde    but 
Diogenes.  140 

Alex.    If  Alexander  have  any  thing  that  may  pleasure  Diogenes, 
let  me  know,  and  take  it. 

Diog.    Then  take  not  from  mee  that  you  cannot  give  mee,  —  the' 
light  of  the  world. 

Alex.    What  doest  thou  want  ?  145 

Diog.    Nothing  that  you  have. 

Alex.    I  have  the  world  at  command. 

Diog.    And  I  in  contempt. 

Alex.    Thou  shalt  live  no  longer  than  I  will. 

Diog.    But  I  shall  die  whether  you  will  or  no.  150 

Alex.    How  should  one  learne  to  bee  content  ? 

Diog.    Unlearne  to  covet. 

Alex.    Hephestion,  were   I   not  Alexander,  I  would  wish   to  bee 
Diogenes  ! 

Hep.    He   is    dogged,  but    discreet;    I    cannot    tell   how  sharpc,  155 
with  a  kind  of  sweetnes;   full  of  wit,  yet  too-too  wayward. 

Alex.    Diogenes,  when   I  come  this  way  againe,  I  will  both   see 
thee  and  confer  with  thee. 

Diog.     Doe.1  \_Enter  APF.I.LES.] 

Alex.    But  here  commeth  Apelies.      How  now,  Apelles,  is  Venus  160 
face  yet  finished  ? 

Apel.    Not  yet ;   beautie  is  not  so  soone  shadowed  whose  perfec- 

1  Does  Diogenes  go  out  here,  or  crawl  into  his  tub,  to  emerge  when  Crysus  speaks  to  him, 
III.  iii  ? 


302  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of         [ACT.  m 

tion   commeth   not  within   the  compasse   either  of  cunning  or  of 
colour. 

Alex.    Well,  let  it  rest  unperfect ;  and  come  you  with  mee  where  165 
I  will  shew  you  that  finished  by  nature  that  you  have  beene  trifling 
about  by  art. 

[Exeunt  Alexander,  Hepbestion,  and  Ape  lies. 


Actus  tertius.     Scaena  prima.1 

\_Enter~\   APELLES,  CAMPASPE    [and  a  little  behind  them,  PSYLLUS.] 

Apel.  Ladie,  I  doubt  whether  there  bee  any  colour  so  fresh  that 
may  shadow  a  countenance  so  faire. 

Camp.    Sir,  I  had  thought  you  had  bin  commanded  to  paint  with 
your  hand,  not  to  glose2  with  your  tongue;   but  as  I  have  heard,  it 
is  the  hardest  thing  in  painting  to  set  downe  a  hard   favour,3  which    5 
maketh  you  to  despaire  of  my  face;  and   then4  shall  you  have  as 
great  thankes  to  spare  your  labour  as  to  discredit  your  art. 

Apel.    Mistris,  you  neither  differ  from  your  selfe  nor  your  sexe  ;  for, 
knowing  your  owne  perfection,  you  seeme  to  disprayse  that  which 
men    most  commend,  drawing  them    by   that    meane    into  an   ad-  10 
miration  where,  feeding  themselves,  they  fall  into  an  extasie  ;   your 
modestie  being  the  cause  of  the  one,  and  of  the  other  your  affections. 

Camp.  I  am  too  young  to  understand  your  speech,  though  old 
enough  to  withstand  your  devise.  You  have  bin  so  long  used  to 
colours  you  can  doe  nothing  but  colour.5  15 

ApeL  Indeed  the  colours  I  sec,  I  fearc  will  alter  the  colour  I 
have.6  But  come,  madam,  will  you  draw  necre  ?  —  for  Alexander 
will  be  here  anon.  Psyllus,  stay  you  here  at  the  window.  If  any 
enquire  for  mee,  answere,  Non  lubet  esse  domi. 

Exeunt  \Apelles  and 


1  The  house  of  Apelles  :  first  inside,  then  in  front. 

2  Flatter.  4  If  you  give  up  in  despair. 

3  Homely  face.  5  Flatter. 
c  Longing,  caused  by  her  beauty,  will  take  the  color  from  his  face. 

7  Bl.  and  later  editors  mark  a  new  scene  here.       Stage  direction  in  lil.   '  Psyllus,  Manes.' 


sc.  i]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  303 

Psyllus.    It  is  alwayes  my  masters  fashion  when  any  faire  gentle-  20 
woman  is  to  be  drawne  within  to  make  me  to  stay  without.      But 
if  hee  should  paint  Jupiter  like  a  bull,  like  a  swanne,  like  an  eagle, 
then  must  Psyllus  with  one  hand  grind  colours  and  with   the  other 
hold   the  candle.      But  let  him  alone  !      The  better  hee  shadowes 
her  face,  the  more  will  he  burne  his  owne  heart.      And  now  if  any  25 
man  could  meet  with  Manes,  who,  I  dare  say,  lookes  as  leane  as  if 
Diogenes  dropped  out  of  his  nose.1  [Enter  MANES.] 

Manes.  And  here  comes  Manes,  who  hath  as  much  meate  in  his 
maw  as  thou  hast  honestie  in  thy  head. 

Psyllus.    Then  I  hope  thou  art  very  hungry.  30 

Manes.    They  that  know  thee  know  that. 

Psyllus.  But  doest  thou  not  remember  that  wee  have  certaine 
liquor  to  conferre  withall. 

Manes.    I,  but  I  have  businesse ;   I  must  goe  cry  a  thing. 

Psyllus.    Why,  what  hast  thou  lost  ?  35 

Manes.    That  which  I  never  had, —  my  dinner! 

Psyllus.    Foule  lubber,  wilt  thou  crie  for  thy  dinner  ? 

Manes.  I  meane  I  must  crie,  —  not  as  one  would  say  "crie," 
but  "  crie,"  2  that  is,  make  a  noyse. 

Psyllus.    Why  foole,  that  is  all  one;   for,  if  thou  crie,  thou  must  40 
needs  make  a  noyse. 

Manes.  Boy,  thou  art  deceived  :  crie  hath  divers  significations, 
and  may  be  alluded  to  many  things;  knave  but  one,3  and  can  be 
applyed  but  to  thee. 

Psyllus.    Profound  Manes  !  45 

Manes.  Wee  Cynickes  are  mad  fellowes.  Didst  thou  not  finde 
I  did  quip  thee  ? 

Psyllus.    No,  verily  !      Why,  what's  a  quip  ? 

Manes.  Wee  great  girders  call  it  a  short  saying  of  a  sharpe  wit, 
with  a  bitter  sense  in  a  sweet  word.  50 

Psyllus.  How  canst  thou  thus  divine,  divide,  define,  dispute,  and 
all  on  the  sodaine  ? 

1  As  lean  as  Diogenes   himself?     J2uery  •   '  Dropped  him  '  ?     The  phrase  suggests,  "  As 
like  as  if  he  had  been  spit  out  of  his  mouth  "  for  "  exact  image."      Kittredge. 

2  Manes  mimics  each  sound. 

3  F.  inserts  to  before  one. 


304  ^4  Tragical  I  Comedie  of        [ACT.  m 

Manes.  Wit  will  have  his  swing  !  I  am  bewitcht,  inspired,  in- 
flamed, infected. 

Psyllus.    Well  then  will  I  not  tempt  thy  gybing  spirit.  55 

Manes.  Doe  not,  Psyllus,  for  thy  dull  head  will  bee  but  a  grind- 
stone for  my  quicke  wit,  which  if  thou  whet  with  overthwarts,1 
periisti,  actum  est  de  te  !  I  have  drawne  bloud  at  ones  braines  with 
a  bitter  bob. 

Psyllus.    Let  me  crosse  my  selfe;   for  I  die  if  I  crosse  thee.  60 

Manes.  Let  me  doe  my  businesse.  I  my  selfe  am  afraid  lest 
my  wit  should  waxe  warme,  and  then  must  it  needs  consume  some 
hard  head  with  fine  and  prettie  jests.  I  am  sometimes  in  such  a 
vaine  that,  for  want  of  some  dull  pate  to  worke  on,  I  begin  to  gird 
my  selfe.  65 

Psyllus.  The  gods  shield  me  from  such  a  fine  fellow,  whose 
words  melt  wits  like  waxe. 

Manes.  Well  then,  let  us  to  the  matter.  In  faith,  my  master 
meaneth  to  morrow  to  flie. 

Psyllus.    It  is  a  jest.  70 

Manes.  Is  it  a  jest  to  flie  ?  Shouldest  thou  flie  so  soone,  thou 
shouldest  repent  it  in  earnest. 

Psyllus.    Well,  I  will  be  the  cryer. 

Manes  and  Psyllus  (one  after  another).    O  ys  !    O  ys  !  O  ys  !2     All 
manner  of  men,  women,  or  children,  that  will    come  to   morrow  75 
into  the  market  place  betweene  the  houres  of  nine  and  ten  shall  see 
Diogenes  the  Cynicke  —  flie.3 

Psyllus.    I  doe  not  thinke  he  will  flie. 

Manes.    Tush,  say  "  flie  !  " 

Psyllus.    Flie.  8c 

Manes.  Now  let  us  goe  ;  for  I  will  not  see  him  againe  till  mid- 
night,—  I  have  a  backe  way  into  his  tub. 

Psyllus.  Which  way  callest  thou  the  backe  way,  when  every  way 
is  open  ? 

Manes.    I  meane  to  come  in  at  his  backe.  85 

Psyllus.    Well,  let  us  goe  away,  that  we  may  returne  speedily. 

Exeunt. 

1  Impudent  replies.  2  0\c-z. 

3  Psyllus,  when  he  comes  to  "flie,"  breaks  off  incredulous.      Manes  gives  the  word. 


sc.  n]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  305 

Actus  tertius.     Scaena  secunda.1 

\Enter\  APELLES,  CAMPASPE. 
Apel.    I   shall   never  draw  your  eyes  well,  because   they  blinde 


mine. 


Camp.    Why  then,  paint  mee  without  eyes,  for  I  am  blind.3 

Apel.    Were  you  ever  shadowed  before  of  any  ? 

Camp.    No ;    and  would  you  could   so   now   shadow   me  that    I    5 
might  not  be  perceived  of  any.4 

Apel.    It  were  pitie  but  that  so  absolute5  a  face  should   furnish 
Venus  temple  amongst  these  pictures. 

Camp.    What  are  these  pictures  ? 

Apel.    This  is  Laeda,  whom  Jove  deceived  in  likenesse  of  a  swan.  10 

Camp.    A  faire  woman,  but  a  foule  deceit. 

Apel.    This  is  Alcmena,  unto  whom  Jupiter  came  in   shape  of 
Amphitrion,  her  husband,  and  begate  Hercules. 

Camp.    A  famous  sonne,  but  an  infamous  fact. 

Apel.    Hee  might  doe  it,  because  hee  was  a  god.  15 

Camp.    Nay,  therefore  it  was  evill  done  because  he  was  a  god. 

Apel.    This  is  Danae,  into  whose  prison  Jupiter  drizled  a  golden 
showre,  and  obtained  his  desire. 

Camp.    What  gold  can  make  one  yeeld  to  desire  ? 

Apel.    This  is  Europa,  whom  Jupiter  ravished;   this,  Antiopa.6       20 

Camp.    Were  all  the  gods  like  this  Jupiter  ? 

Apel.    There  were  many  gods  in  this  like  Jupiter. 

Camp.    I  thinke  in  those  dayes  love  was  well  ratified  among  men 
on  earth  when  lust  was  so  full  authorised  by  the  gods  in  Heaven. 

Apel.    Nay,  you  may  imagine  there  were  women  passing  amiable  25 
when  there  were  gods  exceeding  amorous. 

1  Preceding  editions,  tertia.      The  Studio  of  Apelles. 

2  ' '  But  her  eyes  ! 

How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?"      M.  of  V.  III.  ii. 
8  Does  Campaspe  playfully  close  her  eyes  here  ? 
*  Pun  :   to  paint  and  to  hide.      Campaspe  is  posing  nude. 
5  Perfect. 

0  Lyly  is  thinking  of  the  work  of  Arachne,  who  challenged  Minerva  to  a  trial  of  skill  with 
the  needle,  and  represented  the  amours  of  Jupiter  named.      Ovid.,   Meta.  VI.   I. 


306  A  Tragic  all  Comedie  of         [ACT.  m 

Camp.    Were  women  never  so  faire,  men  would  be  false. 

Apel.    Were  women  never  so  false,  men  would  be  fond. 

Camp.    What  counterfeit  is  this,  Apelles  ? 

Apel.    This  is  Venus,  the  goddesse  of  love.  30 

Camp.    What,  bee  there  also  loving  goddesses  ? 

Apel.  This  is  shee  that  hath  power  to  command  the  very  affec- 
tions of  the  heart. 

Camp.    How  is  she  hired,  —  by  prayer,  by  sacrifice,  or  bribes  ? 

Apel.    By  prayer,  sacrifice,  and  bribes.  35 

Camp.    What  prayer  ? 

Apel.    Vowes  irrevocable. 

Camp.    What  sacrifice  ? 

Apel.    Hearts  ever  sighing,  never  dissembling. 

Camp.    What  bribes  ?  40 

Apel.    Roses  and  kisses.      But  were  you  never  in  love  ? 

Camp.    No;  nor  love  in  me. 

Apel.    Then  have  you  injuried  many. 

Camp.    How  so  ? 

Apel.    Because  you  have  been  loved  of  many.  45 

Camp.    Flattered,  perchance,  of  some. 

Apel.  It  is  not  possible  that  a  face  so  faire  and  a  wit  so  sharpe, 
both  without  comparison,  should  not  be  apt  to  love. 

Camp.    If  you  begin  to  tip  your  tongue  with  cunning,  I  prav  dip 
your  pensill  in  colours  and  fall  to  that  you  must  doe,  not  that  you  50 
would  doe. 

Actus  tertius.     Serena  tertia.1 

\JLnter~\  CLYTUS  [^W]  PARMENIO. 

Clytus.  Parmenio,  I  cannot  tell  how  it  commeth  to  passe  that  in 
Alexander  now  a  dayes  there  groweth  an  unpaticnt  kind  of  life : 
in  the  morning  he  is  melancholy,  at  noone  solemne,  at  all  times 
either  more  sowre  or  severe  than  hee  was  accustomed. 

Par.    In   kings  causes  I  rather  love  to   doubt 2  than  conjecture,    5 

1  Preceding  editions  yuana.  As  M.  notes,  Apelles  and  Campaspe  busy  themselves  with  the 
picture  at  one  side  of  the  stage.  A  new  scene  is  hardly  necessary.  Bl.  '  Clytus,  Parmenio, 
Alexander,  Hephestion,  Crysus,  Diogenes,  Apelles,  Campaspe.'  -Remain  undecided. 


sc.  m]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  307 

and  thinke  it  better  to  bee  ignorant  than  inquisitive  :  they  have 
long  eares  and  stretched  armes ; !  in  whose  heads  suspition  is  a 
proofe,  and  to  be  accused  is  to  be  condemned. 

Clytus.    Yet  betweene  us  there  can  bee  no  danger  to  find  out  the 
cause,  for  that  there  is  no  malice  to  withstand  it.      It  may  be  an  un-  10 
quenchable    thirst   of  conquering    maketh   him   unquiet ;     it  is   not 
unlikely  his  long  ease  hath  altered  his  humour;  that  he  should  be 
in  love,  it  is  not2  impossible. 

Par.  In  love,  Clytus  ?  No,  no  ;  it  is  as  farre  from  his  thought 
as  treason  in  ours.  He,  whose  ever-waking  eye,  whose  never-tired  15 
heart,  whose  body  patient  of  labour,  whose  mind  unsatiable  of 
victorie,  hath  alwayes  beene  noted,  cannot  so  soone  be  melted  into 
the  weake  conceits  of  love.  Aristotle  told  him  there  were  many 
worlds  ;  and  that  he  hath  not  conquered  one  that  gapeth  for  all 
galleth  Alexander.  But  here  he  cometh.  20 

[Enter  ALEXANDER  and  HEPHESTION.] 

Alex.  Parmenio  and  Clytus,  I  would  have  you  both  readie  to 
goe  into  Persia  about  an  ambassage  no  lesse  profitable  to  me  than 
to  your  selves  honourable. 

Clytus.  Wee  are  readie  at  all  commands,  wishing  nothing  else 
but  continually  to  be  commanded.  25 

Alex.  Well  then,  withdraw  yourselves  till  I  have  further  con- 
sidered of  this  matter.  Exeunt  Clytus  and  Parmenio. 

Now  wee  will  see  how  Apelles  goeth  forward.  I  doubt  mee  that 
nature  hath  overcome  art,  and  her  countenance  his  cunning. 

Hep.    You  love,  and  therefore  think  any  thing.  30 

Alex.  But  not  so  farre  in  love  with  Campaspe  as  with  Bucepha- 
lus,3 if  occasion  serve  either  of  conflict  or4  conquest. 

Hep.    Occasion  cannot  want  if  will  doe  not.      Behold  all  Persia 
swelling  in  the  pride  of  their  owne  power,  the  Scythians  carelesse 
what   courage   or   fortune  can   do,  the   Egyptians  dreaming   in   the  35 
southsayings  of  their  augures  and  gaping  over  the  smoake  of  their 
beasts   intralls.      All   these,  Alexander,  are  to  be  subdued,  if  that 

1  The  modern  "  long  arm  of  the  Law."  *  Bl.  of;   F.  or  of.      M.  corrects  as  in  text. 

2  Bl.  omits  n'jt ;   A.  gives  it. 

8  North's  P/utarfb,  Nutt,  IV.  303-304,   351,   369-370. 


308  A  Tragical  I  Comedie  of         [ACT.  m 

world  be  not   slipped  out  of  your  head  which  you   have  sworne  to 
conquer  with  that  hand. 

Alex.  I  confesse  the  labour's  fit  for  Alexander,  and  yet  recreate 
tion  necessarie  among  so  many  assaults,  bloudie  wounds,  intolerable 
troubles.  Give  me  leave  a  little,  if  not  to  sit,  yet  to  breath.  And 
doubt  not  but  Alexander  can,  when  hee  will,  throw  affections  as 
farre  from  him  as  he  can  cowardise.  But  behold  Diogenes  talking 
with  one  at  his  tub.1  45 

Crysus.    One  penny,  Diogenes;   I  am  a  Cynicke. 

Diog.    Hee  made  thee  a  begger  that  first  gave  thee  any  thing. 

Crysus.    Why,  if  thou  wilt  give  nothing,  no  bodie  will  give  thee. 

Diog.    I  want  nothing  till  the  springs  drie  and  the  earth  perish. 

Crysus.    I  gather  for  the  gods.  50 

Diog.    And  I  care  not  for  those  gods  which  want  money. 

Crysus.    Thou  art  not  a  right  2  Cynick,  that  wilt  give  nothing. 

Diog.    Thou  art  not,  that  wilt  begge  any  thing. 

Crysus  [crossing  to  Alexander] .  Alexander !  King  Alexander ! 
Give  a  poore  Cynick  a  groat.3  55 

Alex.    It  is  not  for  a  king  to  give  a  groat. 

Crysus.    Then  give  me  a  talent.4 

Alex.  It  is  not  for  a  begger  to  aske  a  talent.  Away  !  [Exit 
Crysus.  Alexander  crosses  to  the  part  of  the  stage  opposite  the  tub  of 
Diogenes  where  Ape  lies  and  Campaspe  are.~^  60 

Apelles  !  6 

Apel.    Here. 

Alex.  Now,  gentlewoman,  doth  not  your  beautie  put  the  painter 
to  his  trumpe  ? 

Camp.  Yes,  my  lord,  seeing  so  disordered  a  countenance,  hee 
feareth  hee  shall  shadow  a  deformed  counterfeite.  65 

Alex.  Would  he  could  colour  the  life  with  the  feature  !  And 
mee  thinketh,  Apelles,  were  you  as  cunning  as  report  saith  you  are, 

1  Diogenes  enters  before  Crysus  ;   or,  more  probably,  has  been  on  the  stage  in  his  tub  since 
II.   I.      See  p.   301. 

2  In  this  and  the  next  line,  the  speakers  refer  to  the  popular  idea  that  true  Cynics  despised 
money. 

8  Fourpence.      Often  used  for  a  very  small  sum. 

4  In  Attica  about  $1000. 

6  As  Alexander  calls,  he  is  supposed  to  enter  the  house  of  Apt-lies.      See  p.  306,  note  I. 


sc.  in]          Alexander  and  Campaspe  309 

you  may  paint  flowres  as  well  with  sweet  smels  as  fresh  colours, 
observing  in  your  mixture  such  things  as  should  draw  neere  to  their 
savours.  70 

Apel.  Your  Majestie  must  know,  it  is  no  lesse  hard  to  paint 
savours  than  vertues ;  colours  can  neither  speake  nor  thinke. 

Alex.    Where  doe  you  first  begin  when  you  draw  any  picture  ? 

Apel.    The  proportion  of  the  face  in  just  compasse  as  I  can. 

Alex.    I  would  begin  with  the  eye,  as  a  light  to  all  the  rest.  75 

Apel.  If  you  will  paint,  as  you  are  a  king,  Your  Majestie  may 
beginne  where  you  please;  but  as  you  would  bee  a  painter,  you 
must  begin  with  the  face. 

Alex.    Aurelius  *  would  in  one  houre  colour  foure  faces. 

Apel.    I  marvaile  in  halfe  an  houre  hee  did  not  foure.  80 

Alex.    Why,  is  it  so  easie  ? 

Apel.    No ;  but  he  doth  it  so  homely. 

Alex.    When  will  you  finish  Campaspe  ? 

Apel.  Never  finish ;  for  alwayes  in  absolute  beauty  there  is 
somewhat  above  art.  85 

Alex.    Why  should  not  I  by  labour  be  as  cunning  as  Apelles  ? 

Apel.  God  shield  you  should  have  cause  to  be  so  cunning2  as 
Apelles  ! 

Alex.  Me  thinketh  foure  colours  are  sufficient  to  shadow  any 
countenance  ;  and  so  it  was  in  the  time  of  Phydias.3  90 

Apel.  Then  had  men  fewer  fancies  and  women  not  so  many 
favours.4  For  now,  if  the  haire  of  her  eyebrowes  be  blacke,  yet 
must  the  haire  of  her  head  be  yellow;5  the  attire  of  her  head  must 
bee  different  from  the  habit  of  her  bodie,  else  would  the  picture 
seeme  like  the  blazon  of  ancient  armory,6  not  like  the  sweet  delight  95 
of  new-found  amiablenesse."  For,  as  in  garden  knots8  diversitie 

1  Arellius  ?     Mentioned,    Holland,  XXXV.   10.      No  painter  Aurelius  is  known. 

2  Fun  :   technical  knowledge  and  manual  skill,  and  guileful.      Apelles  thinks  of  his  need  to 
conceal  his  passion. 

3  For  the  original  of  this  see  Holland,  XXXV.  7. 

4  Looks,  with  something  of  the  sense  of  attractions. 

6  At  this  time  it  was  fashionable  to  dye  the  hair  yellow  in  compliment  to  the  natural  color 
of  the  Queen's  hair.  F. 

6  A  description  simple  because  ancient  armour  lacked  the  varied  markings  of  Elizabethan 
coats-of-arms. 

7  Loveliness.  8  Ornamental  arrangements  of  flower-beds. 


310  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of        [ACT.  m 

of  odours  make  a  more  sweete  savour,  or  as  in  musique  divers 
strings  cause  a  more  delicate  consent,1  so,  in  painting,  the  more 
colours,  the  better  counterfeit,  —  observing  black  for  a  ground,  and 
the  rest  for  grace.  100 

Alex.  Lend  me  thy  pensill,  Apelles;  I  will  paint,  and  thou  shalt 
judge. 

Apel.    Here. 

Alex.    The  coale  2  breakes. 

Apel.    You  leane  too  hard.  105 

Alex.    Now  it  blackes  not. 

Apel.    You  leane  too  soft. 

Alex.    This  is  awrie. 

Apel.    Your  eye  goeth  not  with  your  hand. 

Alex.    Now  it  is  worse.  iio 

Apel.    Your  hand  goeth  not  with  your  minde. 

Alex.  Nay,  if  all  be  too  hard  or  soft,  —  so  many  rules  and 
regards  that  ones  hand,  ones  eye,  ones  minde  must  all  draw 
together,  —  I  had  rather  bee  setting  of  a  battell  than  blotting  of 
a  boord.3  But  how  have  I  done  here?  115 

Apel.    Like  a  king. 

Alex.  I  thinke  so;  but  nothing  more  unlike  a  painter.4  Well, 
Apelles,  Campaspe  is  finished  as  I  wish.  DLsmisse  her,  and  bring 
presently  her  counterfeit  after  me. 

Apel.    I  will.  I  20 

Alex.  [<7.f  he  crosses  the  stage.~^  Now,  Hephestion,  doth  not  this 
matter  cotton  as  I  would  ?  5  Campaspe  looketh  pleasantly  ;  libertie 
will  encrease  her  beautie,  and  my  love  shall  advance  her  honour. 

Hep.    I  will  not  contrarie  your  Majestic  ;   for  time  must  weare 
out  that  love  hath  wrought,  and  reason  weane  what  appetite  nursed.  125 
[  Campaspe  passes  on  her  way  to  the  farther  door.  ] 

Alex.  How  stately  shee  passeth  by,  yet  how  soberly,  a  sweete 
consent  in  her  countenance,  with  a  chaste  disdaine,  desire  mingled 

1  Harmony. 

2  The  charcoal  with  which  Alexander  is  drawing. 
8  The  old  pictures  were  painted  on  wooden  panels. 

4  For  the  suggestion  for  this  scene,  see  Holland,  XXXV.   10. 

5  Go  as  I  wish. 


sc.  mi]         Alexander  and  Campaspe  3 1 1 

with  coynesse,  and  —  I  cannot  tell  how  to  terme  it — a  curst,  yeeld- 
ing  modesty  !  1 

Hep.    Let  her  passe.  130 

Alex.    So  shee  shall  for  the  fairest  on  the  earth  ! 
Exeunt  [Alexander  and  Hepbestion  at  one  side  of  the  stage,  Ape  lies  at  the  other.  ] 


Actus  tertius.     Scaena  quarta.2 

[Enter]  PSYLLUS  [dW]  MANES. 

Psyllus.    I  shall  be  hanged  for  tarrying  so  long. 

Manes.    I  pray  God  my  master  be  not  flowne  before  I  come  ! 

[Enter  Ape  lies. ~\ 

Psyllus.    Away,  Manes,  my  master  doth  come.  [Exit  Manes.] 

Apel.    Where  have  you  beene  all  this  while  ? 

Psyllus.    Nowhere  but  here.  5 

Apel.    Who  was  here  sithens  my  comming  ? 

Psyllus.    Nobodie. 

Apel.    Ungracious  wag,  I   perceive  you  have  beene  a  loytering  ! 
Was  Alexander  nobodie  ? 

Psyllus.    He  was  a  king,  I  meant  no  mean  bodie.  10 

Apel.  I  will  cudgell  your  bodie  for  it,  and  then  will  I  say  it  was 
no  bodie,  because  it  was  no  honest  bodie.  Away,  in  !  Exit  Psyllus. 
Unfortunate  Apelles,  and  therefore  unfortunate  because  Apelles  ! 
Hast  thou  by  drawing  her  beautie  brought  to  passe  that  thou  canst 
scarce  draw  thine  owne  breath  ?  And  by  so  much  the  more  hast  15 
thou  increased  thy  care  by  how  much  the  more  hast  thou3  shewed 
thy  cunning  ?  Was  it  not  sufficient  to  behold  the  fire  and  warme 
thee,  but  with  Satyrus  thou  must  kisse  the  fire  and  burne  thec  ? 
O  Campaspe,  Campaspe!  Art  must  yeeld  to  nature,  reason  to 
appetite,  wisdome  to  affection  !  Could  Pigmalion  entreate  by  prayer  20 

1  "  Modesty  tempered  in  yielding  by  a  contrasting  emotion."      F. 

2  Preceding  editions  yitinta.      Before  the  house  of  Apt-lies.      Is  a  division  needed  ?      Apelles 
might   remain   when  Alexander  and    Hephestion   leave,  and  just   before   Psyllus  cries   "  Away, 
Manes,"  see  his  page  and  move  toward  him.      Bl.  'Psyllus,  Manes,  Apelles.' 

8  Bl.  Hast  thou  bast.      F.  and  M.  strike  out  the  first  bast.      Is  it  not  more  likely  that  the 
second  is  the  mistake  ? 


312  A  Tragic  all  Comedie  of         [ACT.  m 

to  have  his  ivory  turned  into  flesh,  and  cannot  Apelles  obtaine  by 
plaints  to  have  the  picture  of  his  love  changed  to  life  ?  Is  painting 
so  farre  inferiour  to  carving  ?  Or  dost  thou,  Venus,  more  delight 
to  bee  hewed  with  chizels  then  shadowed  with  colours  ?  What 
Pigmalion,  or  what  Pyrgoteles,  or  what  Lysippus  is  hee,1  that  ever  25 
made  thy  face  so  faire  or  spread  thy  fame  so  farre  as  I  ?  Unlesse, 
Venus,  in  this  thou  enviest  mine  art,  that  in  colouring  my  sweet 
Campaspe  I  have  left  no  place  by  cunning  to  make  thee  so  ami- 
able.2 But,  alas,  shee  is  the  paramour  to  a  prince  !  Alexander,  the 
monarch  of  the  earth,  hath  both  her  body  and  affection.  For  what  30 
is  it  that  kings  cannot  obtaine  by  prayers,  threats,  and  promises  ? 
Will  not  shee  thinke  it  better  to  sit  under  a  cloth  of  estate  3  like  a 
queene  than  in  a  poore  shop  like  a  huswife,  and  esteeme  it  sweeter 
to  be  the  concubine  of  the  lord  of  the  world  than  spouse  to  a  painter 
in  Athens?  Yes,  yes,  Apelles,  thou  maist  swimme  against  the  35 
streame  with  the  crab,  and  feede  against  the  winde  with  the  deere, 
and  peck  against  the  steele  with  the  cockatrice  :  4  starres  are  to  be 
looked  at,  not  reached  at ;  princes  to  be  yeelded  unto,  not  con- 
tended with  ;  Campaspe  to  be  honoured,  not  obtained  ;  to  be  painted, 
not  possessed  of  thee.  O  faire  face  !  O  unhappy  hand  !  And  why  40 
didst  thou  drawe  it  —  so  faire  a  face  ?  O  beautifull  countenance, 
the  expres  image  of  Venus,  but  somwhat  fresher,  the  only  patterne 
of  that  eternitie  which  Jupiter  dreaming,  asleepe,  could  not  con- 
ceive againe  waking  !  Blush,  Venus,  for  I  am  ashamed  to  ende 
thee  !  Now  must  I  paint  things  unpossible  for  mine  art  but  agree- 45 
able  with  my  affections,  —  deepe  and  hollow  sighes,  sad  and  melan- 
cholic thoughtes,  woundes  and  slaughters  of  conceits,  a  life  posting 
to  death,  a  death  galloping  from  life,  a  wavering  constancie,  an  un- 
setled  resolution,  and  what  not,  Apelles?  And  what  but  Apelles?5 

1  "Alexander  streightly  forbad  by  express  edict,  that  no  man  should  draw  his  portrait  in  col- 
ours but  Apelles  the  painter  :  that  none  should  engrave  his  personage  but  Pyrgoteles,  the  graver  : 
and  last  of  all,  that  no  workman  should  cast  his  image  in  .brasse  but  Lysippus  a  founder," 
Holland,  VII.  i. 

a  Apelles  addresses  here  and  in  1.  44  a  picture  of  Venus,  which  he  really  left  unfinished.  Hol- 
land, XXXV.  ii. 

8  Canopy. 

4  Basilisk,  Holland,  VIII.  21. 

6  "  Do  I  say  paint  what  not  (what  is  not)  Apelles  ?  What  are  all  these  —  sighs,  wounds, 
etc.,  but  Apelles  himself.'" 


sc.  mi]          Alexander  and  Campaspe  3 1 3 

But  as  they  that  are  shaken  with  a  feaver  are  to  be  warmed  with  50 
cloathes,  not  groanes,  and   as   he  that   melteth  in  a  consumption  is 
to  be  recured  by  colices,1  not  conceits,  so  the  feeding  canker  of  my 
care,  the  never-dying  worme  of  my  heart,  is  to  be  killed  by  coun- 
sell,  not  cries,  by  applying  of  remedies,  not  by  replying  of  reasons. 
And  sith  in  cases  desperate  there  must  be  used  medicines  that  are  5  5 
extreame,  I  will   hazard  that  little   life  that  is  left,  to   restore  the 
greater  part  that  is  lost ;  and  this  shall  be  my  first  practise,  —  for 
wit  must  worke  where  authentic  is  not,  —  as  soone  as  Alexander 
hath  viewed  this  portraiture,  I  will  by  devise  give  it  a  blemish,  that 
by  that   meanes   she   may  come  againe  to   my  shop ;  and   then   as  60 
good  it  were  to  utter  my  love  and  die  with  denial!  as  conceale  it 
and  live  in  dispaire. 

SONG  BY  APELLES. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  playd 

At  cardes  for  kisses ;  Cupid  payd. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows,  65 

His  mothers  doves,  and  teeme  of  sparows  ; 

Looses  them,  too.     Then,  downe  he  throwes 

The  corrall  of  his  lippe,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek,  —  but  none  knows  how, — 

With  these,  the  cristall  of  his  brow,  70 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chinne; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  winne. 

At  last,  hee  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

Shee  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  love  !   has  shee  done  this  to  thee  ?  75 

What  shall,  alas,  become  of  mee  ?  [Exit  Apelles.~\ 

1  Cullises,  strengthening  jellies. 


314  A  Tragicall  Comedie  of        [ACT.  mi 

Actus  quartus.     Scaena  prima.1 

\_Enter~\   SOLINUS,    PSYLLUS,    \_and~\    GRANICHUS.S 

Sol.  This  is  the  place,  the  day,  the  time,  that  Diogenes  hath 
appointed  to  flie. 

Psyllus.  I  will  not  loose  the  flight  of  so  faire  a  foule  as  Diogenes 
is  though  my  master  cudgell  my  no  body  as  he  threatned. 

Gran.    What,  Psyllus,  will  the  beast  wag  his  wings  to  day  ?  5 

[Enter  Manes. ] 

Psyllus.  Wee  shall  heare ;  for  here  commeth  Manes.  Manes, 
will  it  be  ? 

Manes.  Be  ?  He  were  best  be  as  cunning  as  a  bee,  or  else 
shortly  he  will  not  bee  at  all. 

Gran.    How  is  hee  furnished  to  flie  ?      Hath  he  feathers  ?  10 

Manes.  Thou  art  an  asse !  Capons,  geese,  and  owles,  have 
feathers.  He  hath  found  Dedalus  old  waxen  wings,3  and  hath 
beene  peecing  them  this  moneth,  he  is  so  broad  in  the  shoulders. 
O,  you  shall  see  him  cut  the  ayre  even  like  a  tortoys  ! 

Sol.    Me  thinkes  so  wise  a  man  should  not  bee  so  mad;  his  body  15 
must  needs  be  too  heavie. 

Manes.  Why,  hee  hath  eaten  nothing  this  seven  night  but  corke 
and  feathers. 

Psyllus  [aside].      Touch  him,4  Manes. 

Manes.    Hee  is  so  light  that  hee  can  scarce  keepe  him  from  flying  20 
at  midnight.  Populus  intrat. 

Manes.  See  they  begin  to  flocke,  and,  behold,  my  master  bustels 
himselfe  to  flie.  \_They  draw  nearer  the  tub.~\ 

Diog.'*    You  wicked  and  bewitched  Athenians,  whose  bodies  make 
the  earth  to  groane,  and  whose  breathes  infect  the  ayre  with  stench,  25 
come  ye  to  see  Diogenes  flie  ?     Diogenes  commeth  to  see  you  sinke. 
Yea,6  call  me  doggc  !      So   I   am,  for  I   long  to  gnaw  the  bons  in 
your  skins.      Yee  tearme  me  an  hater  of  men  !      No,  I  am  a  hater 

1  The  market-place.      iM.  2  Bl.  adds  '  Manes,  Diogenes,  Populus.' 

3  Ovid,  Meta.  VIII.  «  Guy  him. 

5  Diogenes  has  probably  been  in  his  tub  since  his  dialogue  with  Crysus,  p.   308. 

6  M.  suggests  '  Yee.'      Sec  next  line. 


sc.  i]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  3 1 5 

of  your  manners.  Your  lives,  dissolute,  not  fearing  death,  will 
prove  your  deaths  desperat,  not  hoping  for  life.  What  do  you  else  30 
in  Athens  but  sleepe  in  the  day  and  surfeit  in  the  night, — backe-gods 
in  the  morning  with  pride,  in  the  evening  belly-gods  with  gluttony  ! 
You  flatter  kings,  and  call  them  gods.  Speak  truth  of  your  selves 
and  confesse  you  are  divels  !  From  the  bee  you  have  taken,  not 
the  honey,  but  the  wax,  to  make  your  religion,  framing  it  to  the  35 
time,  not  to  the  truth.  Your  filthy  lust  you  colour  under  a  courtly 
colour  of  love,  injuries  abroad  under  the  title  of  policies  at  home; 
and  secret  malice  creepeth  under  the  name  of  publike  justice.  You 
have  caused  Alexander  to  drie  up  springs  and  plant  vines,  to  sow 
rocket  and  weed  endift,1  td  sheare  sheepe,  and  shrine  2  foxes.  All  40 
conscience  is  sealed3  at  Athens:  swearing  commeth  of  a  hot  met- 
tle; lying  of  a  quick  wit;  flattery  of  a  flowing  tongue;  undecent 
talke  of  a  merry  disposition.  All  things  are  lawfull  at  Athens: 
either  you  think  there  are  no  gods,  or  I  must  think  ye  are  no  men. 
You  build  as  though  you  should  live  for  ever  and  surfeit  as  though  45 
you  should  die  to  morrowe.  None  teacheth  true  philosophic  but 
Aristotle,  because  hee  was  the  kings  schoole-master  !  O  times  ! 
O  men  !  O  corruption  in  manners  !  Remember  that  greene  grasse 
must  turne  to  drie  hay.  When  you  sleepe,  you  are  not  sure  to  wake  ; 
and  when  you  rise,  not  certaine  to  lie  downe.  Looke  you  never  so  50 
high,  your  heads  must  lie  level  with  your  feet.  Thus  have  I  flowne 
over4  your  disordered  lives;  and  if  you  will  not  amend  your  man- 
ners, I  will  studie  to  flie  further  from  you,  that  I  may  bee  neerer  to 
honestie.5 

Sol.    Thou  ravest,  Diogenes,  for   thy   life  is  different   from  thy  55 
words.      Did  not  I  see  thee  come  out  of  a  brothell  house  ?     Was  it 
not  a  shame  ? 

Diog.    It  was  no  shame  to  goe  out,  but  a  shame  to  goe  in. 

Gran.    It  were  a  good  deede,  Manes,  to  beate  thy  master. 

Manes.    You  were  as  good  eate  my  master.  60 

One  of  the  People.    Hast  thou  made  us  all  fooles,  and  wilt  thou  not 
flie? 

1  Sow  the  inedible  and  weed  out  the  edible.  2  Shut  up  as  if  precious. 

8  "  In  falconry  sealed  means  blinded."      Do.  *  Railed  at. 

6  For  conduct  of  Diogenes  similar  to  this  scene  see  Lives  of  Philosophers,  VI.  405. 


3 1 6  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of        [ACT.  mi 

Diog.    I  tell  thee,  unlesse  thou  be  honest,  I  will  flie.1 

People.    Dog,  dog,  take  a  bone  ! 

Diog.    Thy  father  need  feare  no  dogs,  but  dogs  thy  father.2  65 

People.    We  will  tell  Alexander  that  thou  reprovest  him  behinde 
his  back. 

Diog.    And  I  will  tell  him  that  you  flatter  him  before  his  face. 

People.    Wee  will  cause  all  the  boyes  in  the  streete  to  hisse  at  thee. 

Diog.    Indeede,  I  thinke  the  Athenians  have  their  children  readie  70 
for  any  vice,  because  they  bee  Athenians. 

\_Excunt  Populus  and  Solinus.~\ 

Manes.    Why,  master,  meane  you  not  to  flie  ? 

Diog.    No,  Manes,  not  without  wings. 

Manes.    Everybody  will  account  you  a  lyar. 

Diog.    No,  I  warrant  you,  for  I  will  alwayes  say  the  Athenians  75 
are  mischevous. 

Psyllus.    I  care  not ;  it  was  sport  enough  for  mee  to  see  these  old 
huddles3  hit  home. 

Gran.    Nor  I. 

Psyllus.    Come,  let  us  goe ;  and  hereafter  when  I  meane  to  rayle  80 
upon  any  body  openly,  it  shall  bee  given  out,  I  will  flie.         Exeunt. 

Actus  quartos.     Scaena  secunda.4 

\_Enter\    CAMPASPE. 5 

Camp.  sola.  Campaspe,  it  is  hard  to  judge  whether  thy  choyce 
be  more  unwise  or  thy  chance  unfortunate.  Doest  thou  preferre 
—  but  stay,  utter  not  that  in  wordes  which  maketh  thine  eares  to 
glow  with  thoughts.  Tush,  better  thy  tongue  wagge  than  thy 
heart  breake  !  Hath  a  painter  crept  further  into  thy  minde  than  a  5 
prince  ;  —  Apellcs,  than  Alexander  ?  Fond  wench,  the  basenes  of 

1  Diogenes  refers  to   11.  50-54,    p.   315.      Throughout    Diogenes  is  very  like  a   Cynic  as 
described  in  Lucian's  "Sale  of  the  Philosophers." 

2  Diogenes,  thinking  of  himself  as  older  than  most  of  the  crowd  and  wiser  than  any,  names 
himself,  apparently,  in  '  thy  father.'       "  Diogenes  need  fear  no  curs  like  you,  but  you  need  fear 
a  rating  from  me." 

3  Decrepit  persons. 

*  A  room  in  the  palace.      M.      Why  not  the  house  of  Apelles,  into  which  the  painter  and 
Campaspe  go  after  the  last  lines  of  the  scene?  6  Bl.  '  Campaspe,  Apelles.' 


sc.  n]  Alexander  and  Campaspe  3 1 7 

thy  minde  bewraies  the  meannesse  of  thy  birth.  But,  alas,  affec- 
tion is  a  fire  which  kindleth  as  well !  in  the  bramble  as  in  the  oake, 
and  catcheth  hold  where  it  first  lighteth,  not  where  it  may  best 
burne.  Larkes,  that  mount  aloft  in  the  ayre,  build  their  neasts  10 
below  in  the  earth  ;  and  women  that  cast  their  eyes  upon  kings  may 
place  their  hearts  upon  vassals.  A  needle  will  become  thy  fingers 
better  than  a  lute,  and  a  distaffe  is  fitter  for  thy  hand  than  a  scepter. 
Antes  live  safely  till  they  have  gotten  wings,  and  juniper  is  not 
blowne  up  till  it  hath  gotten  an  high  top:  the  meane  estate  is  with-  15 
out  care  as  long  as  it  continueth  without  pride.  \_Enter  Apelles^ 
But  here  commeth  Apelles,  in  whom  I  would  there  were  the  like 
affection. 

Apel.    Gentlewoman,  the  misfortune  I  had  with  your  picture  will 
put  you  to  some  paines  to  sit  againe  to  be  painted.  20 

Camp.    It  is  small  paines  for  mee  to  sit  still,  but  infinite  for  you 
to  draw  still. 

Apel.    No,  madame ;    to   painte  Venus   was   a   pleasure,  but   to 
shadow  the  sweete  face  of  Campaspe,  it  is  a  heaven  ! 

Camp.    If  your  tongue  were  made  of  the  same  flesh  that  your  25 
heart  is,  your  words  would  bee  as  your  thoughts  are ;    but,  such   a 
common  thing  it  is  amongst  you  to  commend  that  oftentimes  for 
fashion  sake  you  call  them  beautifull  whom  you  know  blacke. 

Apel.    What  might  men  doe  to  be  beleeved  ? 

Camp.    Whet  their  tongue  on  their  hearts.  30 

Apel.    So  they  doe,  and  speake  as  they  thinke. 

Camp.    I  would  they  did  ! 

Apel.    I  would  they  did  not  ! 

Camp.    Why,  would  you  have  them  dissemble  ? 

Apel.    Not  in  love,  but  their  love.2     But  will  you  give  mee  leave  35 
to  aske  you  a  question  without  offence  ? 

Camp.    So  that  you  will  answere  mee  another  without  excuse. 

Apel.    Whom  doe  you  love  best  in  the  world  ? 

Camp.    He  that  made  me  last  in  the  world. 

Apel.    That  was  a  god.  40 

1  Bl.,  'aswell.' 

2  "  Apelles  would    have   no  dissembling  in  real  love,   but  only  in  the  simulated  love  he 
despises."      F. 


3 1 8  A  Tragical/  Comedie  of        [ACT.  mi 

Camp,    I  had  thought  it  had  beene  a  man.      But  whom  doe  you 
honour  most,  Apelles  ? 

ApeL    The  thing  that  is  likest  you,  Campaspe. 

Camp.    My  picture  ? 

ApeL    I  dare  not  venture   upon  your  person.      But  come,  let  us  45 
go  in  5  for  Alexander  will  thinke  it  long  till  we  returne.          Exeunt. 


Actus  quartus.     Scaena  tertia.1 

[Enter~\    CLYTUS    \_and~\    PARMENIO. 

Clytus.  We  heare  nothing  of  our  embassage,  —  a  colour2  belike 
to  bleare  our  eyes  or  tickle  our  eares  or  inflame  our  hearts.  But 
what  doth  Alexander  in  the  meane  season  but  use  for  tantara, — W, 
fa,  !a;3  for  his  hard  couch,  downe  beds;  for  his  handfull  of  water, 
his  standing-cup  of  wine  ?  4  5 

Par.  Clytus,  I  mislike  this  new  delicacie  and  pleasing  peace, 
for  what  else  do  we  see  now  than  a  kind  of  softnes  in  every  mans 
minde  :  bees  to  make  their  hives  in  souldiers  helmets;5  our  steeds 
furnished  with  footclothes  of  gold,  insteede  of  sadles  of  steele ; 
more  time  to  be  required  to  scowre  the  rust  of  our  weapons  than  10 
there  was  wont  to  be  in  subduing  the  countries  of  our  enemies. 
Sithence  Alexander  fell  from  his  hard  armour  to  his  soft  robes, 
behold  the  face  of  his  court:  youths  that  were  wont  to  carry 
devises  of  victory  in  their  shields  engrave  now  posies  of  love  in 
their  ringes ;  they  that  were  accustomed  on  trotting  horses  1015 
charge  the  enemie  with  a  launce,  now  in  easie  coches  ride  up  and 
down  to  court  ladies  ;  in  steade  of  sword  and  target  to  hazard  their 
lives,  use  pen  and  paper  to  paint  their  loves  ;  yea,  such  a  feare  and 
faintnesse  is  growne  in  court  that  they  wish  rather  to  heare  the 
blowing  of  a  home  to  hunt  than  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  to  fight.  20 

1  The  palace.      M.  2  Pretext. 

3  "  For  the  sound  of  the  war  trumpet,  the  voice  of  the  singer."       F. 

*  A  large  and  usually  ornamental  drinking  cup,  made  especially  for  the  dresser  or  sideboard. 
The  chief  guest  at  an  entertainment  or  the  presiding  dignitary  was  served  from  it. 

5  An  engraving  in  Alciati's  Emblems,  representing  bees  swarming  into  the  face-guard  of  a 
helmet  probably  provided  this  simile.  F 


sc.  mi]          Alexander  and  Campaspe  3 1 9 

O  Philip,  wert  thou  alive  to  see  this  alteration,  —  thy  men  turned 
to  women,  thy  souldiers  to  lovers,  gloves  worne  in  velvet  caps,1  in 
stead  of  plumes  in  graven  helmets, —  thou  wouldest  either  dye 
among  them  for  sorrow  or  counfound  2  them  for  anger. 

Clytus,    Cease,  Parmenio,  least  in  speaking  what  becommeth  thee  25 
not,  thou  feele  what  liketh  thee   not :    truth    is  never  with  out  a 
scracht  face ;    whose  tongue  although    it  cannot   be    cut   out,  yet 
must   it  be  tied   up. 

Par.  It  grieveth  me  not  a  little  for  Hephestion,  who  thirsteth 
for  honour,  not  ease ;  but  such  is  his  fortune  and  neernesse  in  3° 
friendship  to  Alexander  that  hee  must  lay  a  pillow  under  his  head 
when  hee  would  put  a  target  in  his  hand.  But  let  us  draw  in,  to 
see  how  well  it  becomes  them  to  tread  the  measures  in  a  daunce3 
that  were  wont  to  set  the  order  for  a  march.  Exeunt. 


Actus  quartus.     Scsena  quarta.4 
[Enter~\   APELLES    [and~\   CAMPASPE. 

Apel.    I  have  now,  Campaspe,  almost  made  an  ende. 

Camp.    You  told  mee,  Apelles,  you  would  never  end. 

Apel.    Never  end  my  love,  for  it  shal  be  5  eternall. 

Camp.    That  is,  neither  to  have  beginning  nor  ending. 

Apel.    You  are  disposed  to  mistake  ;   I  hope  you  do  not  mistrust.    5 

Camp.    What  will  you  say,  if  Alexander  perceive  your  love  ? 

Apel.    I  will  say  it  is  no  treason  to  love. 

Camp.    But  how  if  hee  will  not  suffer  thee  to  see  my  person  ? 

Apel.    Then  will  I  gaze  continually  on  thy  picture. 

Camp.    That  will  not  feede  thy  heart.  10 

Apel.  Yet  shall  it  fill  mine  eye.  Besides,  the  sweet  thoughts, 
the  sure  hopes,  thy  protested  faith,  wil  cause  me  to  embrace  thy 
shadow  continually  in  mine  armes,  of  the  which  by  strong  imagina- 
tion I  will  make  a  substance. 

1  Gloves  were  worn  in  the  hat  for  three  purposes,  —  as  the  favor  of  a  mistress,  the  memorial 
of  a  friend,  and  as  a  mark  to  challenge  an  enemy. 

-  Destroy.  3  To  dance  in  a  blow  and  stately  fashion. 

4  Studio  of  Apelles.  &  Bl.,  one  word. 


320      A  Tragical!  Comedie  of     [ACT.  mi.  sc.  mi] 

Camp.    Wei,  I  must  be  gone.      But  this  assure  your  selfe,  that  I  15 
had   rather  be   in   thy   shop  grinding  colours    than    in    Alexander's 
court  following  higher  fortunes.      [As  she  crosses  the  stage1'}      Foolish 
wench,  what  hast  thou  done  ?      That,  alas,  which  cannot  be  undone  ; 
and  therefore   I   feare  me   undone.      But  content  is  such  a  lite  ;   I 
care  not  for  aboundance.      O  Apelles,  thy  love  commeth   from  the  20 
heart  but  Alexander's  from  the  mouth  !      The  love  of  kings  is  like 
the  blowing  of  winds,  which  whistle  sometimes  gently  among  the 
leaves  and  straight  waies  turne  the  trees  up  by  the  rootes  ;   or  fire, 
which  warmeth    afarre   off,  and  burneth   neere  hand  ;    or  the  sea, 
which  maketh  men  hoise  their  sailes   in   a  flattering  calme,  and  to  25 
cut  their  mastes  in  a  rough  storme.     They  place  affection  by  times, 
by  policy,  by  appoyntment.      If  they  frowne,  who  dares  call  them 
unconstant ;    if  bewray  secrets,  who  will  tearme  them   untrue ;   if 
fall  to  other  loves,  who  trembles  not,  if  hee  call  them   unfaithful!  ? 
In  kings  there  can  bee  no  love  but  to  queenes ;   for  as  neere  must  30 
they  meete  in  majestic  as  they  doe  in  affection.      It  is  requisite  to 
stand  aloofe  from  kings  love,  Jove,  and  lightening.  Exit. 

Apel?  Now,  Apelles,  gather  thy  wits  together.  Campaspe  is  no 
lesse  wise  then  faire ;  thy  selfe  must  be  no  lesse  cunning  then  faith- 
full.3  It  is  no  small  matter  to  be  rivall  with  Alexander.  35 

\_Enter  PAGE  of  ALEXANDER.] 

Page.  Apelles,  you    must   come   away  quickly  with   the   picture 

the  king  thinketh  that  now  you  have  painted  it,  you  play  with  it. 

Apel.  If  I  would  play  with  pictures,  I  have  enough  at  home. 

Page.  None,  perhaps,  you  like  so  well. 

Apel.  It  may  be  I  have  painted  none  so  well.  40 

Page.  I  have  knowen  many  fairer  faces. 

Apel.  And  I  many  better  boyes.  Exeunt. 

1  Preceding  editions,  following   Bl.,  read  'Campaspe  alone."      It  is  much  more  natural   to 
suppose  that  while  she  is  crossing  the  stage,  Apelles  lingers  on  one  side,  watching  her.       When 
she  goes  out,  he  speaks. 

2  Preceding  editions,  stctus  yuanus.       Sctena  yuinta  ;    HI.  'Apelles,  Page.' 

3  See  note  2,  p.   309. 


[ACT.  v.  sc.  i]      Alexander  and  Campaspe       321 


Actus  quintus.     Soena  prima.1 

[Enter]    SYLVIUS,    PERIM,    MILO,    TRICO,    [and]    MANES.      [DIOGENES 

in  bis  tub.]'  t£i  -JU*-- 

Syl.    I  have  brought  my  sons,  Diogenes,  to  be  taught  of  thee. 

Diog.    What  can  thy  sonnes  do  ? 

Syl.    You  shall  see  their  qualities.      Dance,  sirha  ! 

Then  Perim  dancetb. 
How  like  you  this  ?      Doth  he  well  ? 

Diog.    The  better,  the  worser.3  5 

SyL    The  musicke  very  good. 

Diog.  The  musitions  very  bad,  who  onely  study  to  have  their 
strings  in  tune,  never  framing  their  manners  to  order. 

SyL    Now  shall  you  see  the  other.     Tumble,  sirha  ! 

Mi!o  tumbletb. 
How  like  you  this  ?     Why  do  you  laugh  ?  10 

Diog.  To  see  a  wagge  that  was  borne  to  breake  his  neck  by 
destinie  to  practise  it  by  art. 

Milo.    This  dogge  will  bite  me  ;   I  will  not  be  with  him. 

Diog.    Feare  not  boy  ;  dogges  eate  no  thistles. 

Perim.    I  marvell  what  dogge  thou  art,  if  thou  be  a  dogge.  i  5 

Diog.  When  I  am  hungry,  a  mastife  ;  and  when  my  belly  is 
full,  a  spannell. 

Syl.  Dost  thou  beleeve4  that  there  are  any  gods,  that  thou  art 
so  dogged  ? 

Diog.    I  must  needs  beleeve  there  are  gods,  for  I  thinke  thee  an  20 
enemie  to  them. 

Syl.    Why  so  ? 

Diog.  Because  thou  hast  taught  one  of  thy  sonnes  to  rule  his 
legges  and  not  to  follow  learning,  the  other  to  bend  his  bodie  every 
way  and  his  minde  no  way.  25 

Perim.    Thou  doest  nothing  but  snarle  and  barke,  like  a  dogge. 

1  The  market-place.      M.  2  Bl.  puts  '  Diogenes'  before  '  Sylvius.' 

3  For  the  originals  of  this  and  the  first,  third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  of  Diogenes's  speeches 
which  follow  see  Li-vet  of  Philosophers,  VI.  406,  415,  41  7,  418,  414,  42^,  43'  • 

4  Dost  thou  not? 


322  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of          [ACT.  v 

Diog.    It  is  the  next 1  way  to  drive  away  a  theefe. 

Syl.    Now  shall  you  heare  the  third,  who  sings  like  a  nightingale. 

Diog.    I  care  not ;  for  I  have  a  nightingale  to  sing  2  her  selfe. 

Syl.    Sing,  sirha  !  30 

TRYCO  singetb. 

SONG.3 

What 4  bird  so  sings  yet  so  dos  wayle  ? 

O  'tis  the  ravish'd  5  nightingale. 

"  Jug>  Jug>  Jug>  Jugi  tereu,"  shee  cryes  ; 

And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 

Brave  prick  song,6  who  is't  now  we  heare  ?  35 

None  but  the  larke  so  shrill  and  cleare. 

How  at  heavens  gats 7  she  claps  her  wings, 

The  morne  not  waking  till  shee  sings  ! 

Heark,  heark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 

Poore  Robin  Red-breast  tunes  his  note  !  40 

Heark  how  the  jolly  cuckoes  sing 

"  Cuckoe,"  to  welcome  in  the  spring; 

"  Cuckoe,"  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 

Syl.    Loe,  Diogenes  !      I  am  sure  thou  canst  not  doe  so  much. 
Diog.    But  there  is  never  a  thrush  but  can.  45 

Syl.    What  hast  thou  taught  Manes,  thy  man  ? 

1  Readiest.  2  Bl.  omits  to.      F.  and  M.  insert  it.      Query,  'sings'  ? 

3  Of  course  the  Song  falls  into  three  stanzas,  with  divisions  at  11.  35,  39.  —  Gen.  Ed. 

4  These  lines  illustrate  well  how  the  memory  of  Shakespeare  caught  and  held  the  best  in  the 
lines  of  others.      Here,  scattered  through  several  lines,  is  the  first  line  of  the  well-known  song 
in  Cymbeline :  — 

3       4 
"  None  but  the  larke  so  shrill  and  cleare. 

56  7 

How  at  heavens  gats  she  claps  her  wings, 

8 
The  morne  not  waking  till  she  sings! 

1  '.' 

Heark,  heark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poore  Robin  Red-breast  tunes  his  note  !  " 

8  Not  only  enraptured,  but  with  reference  to  the  story  of  Philomela,  Ovid,  Mcta.  VI. 
6  Warbler.  7  '  Gate  '"  as  in  Shakespeare  r      The  '  i  '  from  '  she  '  ? 


sc.  n]          Alexander  and  Camp aspe  323 

Diog.    To  be  as  unlike  as  may  be  thy  sons. 

Manes.    He  hath  taught  me  to  fast,  lie  hard,  and  run  away. 

Syl.    How  sayest  thou,  Perim,  wilt  thou  bee  with  him  ? 

Perim.    I,  so  he  will  teach  me  first  to  runne  away.  50 

Diog.    Thou  needest  not  be  taught,  thy  legges  are  so  nimble. 

Syl.    How  sayest  thou,  Milo,  wilt  thou  be  with  him  ? 

Diog.    Nay,  hold  your  peace ;   hee  shall  not. 

Syl.    Why? 

Diog.    There  is  not  roome  enough  for  him  and  me  to  tumble  55 
both  in  one  tub. 

Syl.    Well,    Diogenes,   I    perceive    my   sonnes    brooke    not    thy 
manners. 

Diog.    I  thought  no  lesse,  when  they  knew  my  vertues. 

Syl.    Farewell,  Diogenes  ;  thou  neededst  not  have  scraped  rootes,  60 
if  thou  wouldst  have  followed  Alexander. 

Diog.    Nor  thou  have  followed  Alexander,  if  thou  hadst  scraped 
rootes.1  Exeunt  [all  except  Diogenes.] 


Actus  quintus.     Scaena  secunda.2 

[Enter  ApELLEs.3] 

Apel.  I  feare  mee,  Apelles,  that  thine  eyes  have  blabbed  that 
which  thy  tongue  durst  not  !  What  little  regard  hadst  thou ! 
Whilest  Alexander  viewed  the  counterfeit  of  Campaspe,  thou 
stoodest  gazing  on  her  countenance.  If  he  espie  or  but  suspect, 
thou  must  needs  twice  perish,  —  with  his  hate  and  thine  owne  love.  5 
Thy  pale  lookes  when  he  blushed,  thy  sad  countenance  when  he 
smiled,  thy  sighes  when  he  questioned,  may  breed  in  him  a  jelousie, 
perchance  a  frenzie.  O  love !  I  never  before  knew  what  thou 
wert,  and  now  hast  thou  made  me  that  I  know  not  what  my  selfe 
am  !  Onely  this  I  know,  that  I  must  endure  intolerable  passions  10 
for  unknowne  pleasures.  Dispute  not  the  cause,  wretch,  but  yeeld 
to  it ;  for  better  it  is  to  melt  with  desire  than  wrastle  with  love. 

1  For  the  original  of  this  sec  Lives  of  Pbi/osopbfrst  VI.  426. 

'2  Studio  or'  Apelles.  a  Bl.  and  later  editors,  Apclles  alone. 


324  A  Tragical!  Comedie  of          [ACT.  v 

Cast  thy  selfe  on   thy  carefull  bed  ;  be  content  to  live  unknown, 
and  die  unfound.1      O  Campaspe,  I  have  painted  thee  in  my  heart ! 
Painted  ?      Nay,  contrary  to  mine  arte,  imprinted;   and  that  in  such  15 
deepe  characters  that  nothing  can  rase  it  out,  unlesse  it  rubbe  my2 
heart  out.  Exit. 

Actus  quintus.     Scaena  tertia.3 

\_Enter\  MILECTUS,  PHRYGIUS,  \_and~\  LAIS.*      [DIOGENES  is  in  his  tub.~\ 

Mil.    It  shall  goe  hard  but  this  peace  shall  bring  us  some  pleasure. 

Phry.    Downe  with  armes,  and  up  with  legges  !      This  is  a  world 
for  the  nonce  !  5 

Lais.    Sweet   youths,    if  you   knew6  what   it  were  to  save  your 
sweet  blood,   you    would    not   so    foolishly   go   about    to   spend   it.    5 
What  delight  can  there  be  in  gashing,  to  make  foule  scarres  in  faire 
faces,  and  crooked  maimes  in  streight  legges,  as  though  men,  being 
borne   goodly  by   nature,   would    of  purpose    become  deformed  by 
folly,  —  and  all,   forsooth   for   a   new-found  tearme,  called  valiant, 
a  word  which  breedeth   more  quarrels  than  the  sense  can  commen-  10 
dation  ? 

Mil.    It  is  true,  Lais,  a  feather-bed  hath  no  fellow.      Good  drinke 
makes  good  blood,  and  shall  pelting "'  words  spill  it  ? 

Phry.    I  meane  to  enjoy  the  world,  and   to   draw  out  my  life  at 
the  wire-drawers;   not  to  curtail  it  off  at  the  cutlers.  15 

Lais.  You  may  talke  of  warre,  speake  bigge,  conquer  worlds 
with  great  words;  but  stay  at  home,  where  in  steade  of  alarums 
you  shall  have  dances,  for  hot  battailes  with  fierce  men,  gentle 
skirmishes  with  faire  women.  These  pewter  coates8  can  never  sit 
so  well  as  satten  doublets.  Beleeve  me,  you  cannot  conceive  the  20 
pleasure  of  peace  unlesse  you  despise  the  rudenes  of  warre. 

Mil.    It  is  so.      But  see  Diogenes  prying  over  his  tub  !      Diogenes 
what  sayest  thou  to  such  a  morsell  ?  [Pointing  to  Lais.~\ 

1  "  Be  content  to  live  with  thy  love  unexpressed,  and  to  die  with  it  undiscovered." 

2  Quartos  and  Bl.  tb\.      Corrected  by  L)o.  5  For  the  purpose.  8  Steel  cuirasses. 

3  The  market-place."     M.  c  Bl.  know. 

*  Bl.  adds  '  Diogenes.'  "  Contemptible. 


sc.  mi]          Alexander  a?id  Campaspe  325 

Diog.  I  say  I  would  spit  it  out  of  my  mouth,  because  it  should 
not  poyson  my  stomacke.  25 

Phry.    Thou  speakest  as  thou  art ;   it  is  noe  meate  for  dogges. 

Diog.    I  am  a  dogge,  and  philosophy  rates  1  me  from  carrion. 

Lais.  Uncivil  wretch,  whose  manners  are  answerable  to  thy 
calling,  the  time  was  thou  wouldest  have  had  my  company,  had  it 
not  beene,  as  thou  saidst,  too  deare.  30 

Diog.  I  remember  there  was  a  thing  that  I  repented  mee  of,  and 
now  thou  hast  tolde  it.  Indeed,  it  was  too  deare  of  nothing,2  and 
thou  deare  to  no  bodie. 

Lais.    Downe,  villaine,  or  I  will  have  thy  head  broken  ! 

Mil.    Will  you  couch  ?  3  35 

Phry.  Avant,  curre  !  Come,  sweet  Lays,  let  us  goe  to  some 
place  and  possesse  peace.  But  first  let  us  sing ;  there  is  more 
pleasure  in  tuning  of  a  voyce,  than  in  a  volly  of  shot.  \_A  Song.~\ 

Alii.    Now  let  us  make  hast,  least  Alexander  finde  us  here  ! 

Exeunt  [a!! except  Diogenes.  ] 

Actus  quintus.     Soena  quarta.4 
\_Enter~^  ALEXANDER,  HEPHESTION,  [^W]  PAGE.'1"      [DIOGENES  is  in  bis  tub.~\ 

Alex.  Methinketh,  Hephestion,  you  are  more  melancholy  than 
you  were  accustomed  ;  but  I  perceive  it  is  all  for  Alexander.  You 
can  neither  brooke  this  peace  nor  my  pleasure.  Bee  of  good  cheare  ; 
though  I  winke,  I  sleepe  not. 

Hep.    Melancholy  I  am  not,  nor  well  content ;   for,  I   know  not    5 
how,  there  is  such  a  rust  crept   into  my  bones  with  this  long  ease 
that  I  feare  I  shall  not  scowre  it  out  with  infinite  labours. 

Alex.    Yes,  yes,  if  all  the  travailes  of  conquering  the  world  will 
set  either  thy  bodie  or  mine  in  tune,  we  will  undertake  them.      But 
what  thinke  you  of  Apclles  ?      Did  yce  ever  see  any  so  perplexed  ?  ic 
He  neither  answered   directly  to  any  question,  nor  looked  stedfastly 
upon  any  thing.      I  hold  my  life  the  painter  is  in  love. 

1  In  Kent  rate  is  used  for  call  away,  oft".      V.          3  Milectus  threatens  to  strike  Diogenes. 

2  If  nothing  were  paid.  4  The  market-place.     M. 

6  Bl.  adds  '  Diogenes,  Apelles,  Campaspe.' 


326  A  Tragical  I  Comedie  of          [ACT.  v 

Hep.  It  may  be ;  for  commonly  we  see  it  incident  in  artificers 
to  be  enamoured  of  their  owne  workes,  as  Archidamus  of  his 
wooden  dove,  Pygmalion  of  his  ivorie  image,1  Arachne  of  her  15 
woven  swanne,2 — especially  painters,  who  playing  with  their  owne 
conceits,  now  coveting3  to  draw  a  glancing  eie,  then  a  rolling,  now 
a  winking,  still  mending  it,  never  ending  it,  till  they  be  caught  with 
it,  and  then,  poore  soules,  they  kisse  the  colours  with  their  lips, 
with  which  before  they  were  loth  to  taint  their  fingers.  2O 

Alex.  I  will  find  it  out.  Page,  goe  speedily  for  Apelles.  Will 
him  to  come  hither;  and  when  you  see  us  earnestly  in  talke, 
sodainly  crie  out,  "  Apelles  shop  is  on  fire  !  " 

Page.    It  shall  be  done. 

Alex.    Forget  not  your  lesson.  \_Exit  Page.~\  25 

Hep.    I  marvell  what  your  devise  shal  be. 

Alex.    The  event  shall  prove. 

Hep.    I  pittie  the  poore  painter  if  he  be  in  love. 

Alex.  Pitie  him  not,  I  pray  thee.  That  severe  gravity  set  aside, 
what  doe  you  thinke  of  love  ?  30 

Hep.  As  the  Macedonians  doe  of  their  hearbe  beet, —  which 
looking  yellow  in  the  ground  and  blacke  in  the  hand,  —  thinke  it 
better  scene  than  toucht. 

Alex.    But  what  doe  you  imagine  it  to  be  ? 

Hep.    A  word,  by  superstition   thought  a  god,  by  use  turned   to  35 
an  humour,  by  selfe-will  made  a  flattering  madnesse. 

Alex.  You  are  too  hard-hearted  to  thinke  so  of  love.  Let  us 
goe  to  Diogenes.  [They  cross  the  stage. ^\  Diogenes,  thou  mayst 
thinke  it  somewhat  that  Alexander  commeth  to  thee  againe  so  soone. 

Diog.    If  you  come  to  learne,  you  could  not  come  soone  enough  ;  40 
if  to  laugh,  you  be  come  too  soone. 

Hep.  It  would  better  become  thee  to  be  more  courteous  and 
frame  thy  self  to  please. 

Diog.    And  you  better  to  bee  lesse,  if  you  durst  displease. 

Alex.    What  doest  thou  thinke  of  the  time  we  have  here  ?  45 

Diog.    That  we  have  little  and  lose  much. 

1  Ovid,  Meta.  X.  9. 

2  Earlier  editions,  bis  "wooden  s-wannc,  borrowing  the  first  two  words  from  the  line  above. 
Sec  note.  p.  305.  8  M.  suggests  'covet.' 


sc.  mi]         Alexander  and  Campaspe  327 

Alex.    If  one  be  sicke,  what  wouldst  thou  have  him  doe  ? 
Diog.    Bee  sure  that  hee  make  not  his  physician  his  heire. 
Alex.    If  thou  mightest  have  thy  will,  how  much  ground  would 
content  thee  ?  50 

Diog.    As  much  as  you  in  the  end  must  be  contented  withall. 
Alex.    What,  a  world  ? 
Diog.    No,  the  length  of  my  bodie. 
Alex,  [aside^ 
Hep.  [aside 
Alex,  [aside 


Hephestion,  shall  I  bee  a  little  pleasant  with  him  ? 
You  may  ;  but  hee  will  be  very  perverse  with  you.  55 
It  skils  not ; 1  I  cannot  be  angry  with  him.     Diog- 


enes, I  pray  thee  what  doest  thou  thinke  of  love  ? 

Diog.    A  little  worser  than  I  can  of  hate. 

Alex.    And  why  ? 

Diog.    Because  it  is  better  to  hate  the  things  which  make  to  love  60 
than  to  love  the  things  which  give  occasion  of  hate. 

Alex.    Why,  bee  not  women  the  best  creatures  in  the  world  ? 

Diog.    Next  men  and  bees. 

Alex.    What  doest  thou  dislike  chiefly  in  a  woman? 

Diog.    One  thing.  65 

Alex.    What? 

Diog.    That  she  is  a  woman, 

Alex.    In  mine  opinion  thou  wert  never  borne  of  a  woman,  that 
thou  thinkest   so   hardly   of  women.      [Enter  Apelles.~\      But  now 
commeth  Apelles,  who  I  am  sure  is  as  farre  from  thy  thoughts  as  70 
thou  art  from  his  cunning.      Diogenes,  I  will  have  thy  cabin2  re- 
moved neerer  to  my  court,  because  I  will  be  a  philosopher. 

Diog.    And  when  you  have  done  so,  I    pray  you  remove  your 
court  further  from  my  cabin,  because  I  will  not  be  a  courtier. 

Alex.    But  here  commeth  Apelles.     Apelles,  what  peece  of  work  75 
have  you  now  in  hand  ? 

Apel.    None  in  hand,  if  it  like  your  Majestic;  but  I  am  devising 
a  platforme  3  in  my  head. 

Alex.    I   thinke  your  hand  put  it  in  your  head.     Is  it  nothing 
about  Venus  ?  80 

1  A.  «skilleth.' 

2  In  Lyly's  time  'cabin  '  seems  to  have  been  used  vaguely  for  any  rude  dwelling. 
*  A  sketch  for  a  picture,  or  the  plan  for  a  building.     F. 


328  A  Tragical/  Comedie  of          [ACT.  v 

Apel.    No,  but  something  above1  Venus.  \_The  Page  runs  in.~\ 

Page.  Apelles,  Apelles,  looke  aboute  *  you  !  Your  shop  is  on 
fire! 

Apel.  [starting  off~\.  Aye  mee,  if  the  picture  of  Campaspe  be 
burnt,  I  am  undone  !  85 

Alex.  Stay,  Apelles  ;  no  haste.  It  is  your  heart  is  on  fire,  not 
your  shop  ;  and  if  Campaspe  hang  there,  I  would  shee  were  burnt. 
But  have  you  the  picture  of  Campaspe  ?  Belike  you  love  her  well, 
that  you  care  not  though  all  be  lost,  so  she  be  safe. 

Apel.    Not  love  her  !      But  your  Majestic  knowes  that  painters  in    90 
their  last  workes  are  said  to  excell  themselves  ;   and  in  this  I  have 
so  much  pleased  my  selfe,  that  the  shadow  as  much  delighteth  mee, 
being;  an  artificer,  as  the  substance  doth  others,  that  are  amorous. 

r  ,  * 

Alex.    You  lay  your  colours  grosly.2     Though   I  could  not  paint 
in  your  shop,  I  can  spie  into  your  excuse.      Be  not  ashamed,  Apel-    95 
les  ;   it  is  a  gentlemans  sport  to  be  in   love.      [  To  the  Page]      Call 
hither  Campaspe.      [Exit  Page.]      Methinkes3  I  might  have  beene 
made  privie  to  your  affection  :   though    my   counsell  had  not  bin 
necessary,  yet  my  countenance  might  have  beene  thought  requisite. 
But  Apelles,  forsooth,  loveth  under  hand;  yea,  and  under  Alexanders  100 
nose,  and  —  but  I  say  no  more! 

Apel.  Apelles  loveth  not  so  ;  but  hee  liveth  to  doe  as  Alexander 
will.  [Re-enter  Page  with  Campaspe.] 

Alex.    Campaspe,  here  is  newes.      Apelles  is  in  love  with  you. 

Camp.    It  pleaseth  your  Majestic  to  say  so.  105 

Alex.  [aside]  .  Hephestion,  I  will  trie  her  too.  —  Campaspe,  for 
the  good  qualities  I  know  in  Apelles  and  the  vertue  I  see  in  you,  I 
am  determined  you  shall  enjoy  one  another.  How  say  you,  Cam- 
paspe, would  you  say,  "  I  ?  " 

Camp.    Your  hand-maid  must  obey  if  you  command.  110 

Alex  [aside] .  Thinke  you  not,  Hephestion,  that  she  would  faine 
be  commanded. 

Hep.  [aside] .    I  am  no  thought-catcher,  but  I  ghesse  unhappily.4 

1  M.,  phrasing  as  in  the  text,  says  :    "  In  Bl.  these  two  words  (each  standing  at  the  end  of 
a  line)  are  interchanged.      F.  prints  as  I  do,  but,  as  he  has  no  note,  I  do  not  know  whether  lie 
followed  one  of  the  older  editions,  or  corrects  by  conjecture." 

2  Frame  your  excuses  clumsily.       3  BL,  two  words.     4  "  But  my  surmise  is  mischievous." 


sc.  mi]         Alexander  and  Campaspe  329 

Alex.    I  will  not  enforce  marriage  where  I  cannot  compell  love. 

Camp.    But  your  Majestic  may  move  a  question  where  you  be  115 
willing  to  have  a  match. 

Alex,  [aside].  Beleeve  me,  Hephestion,  these  parties  are  agreed; 
they  would  have  mee  both  priest  and  witnesse. — Apelles,  take 
Campaspe  !  Why  move  yee  not  ?  Campaspe,  take  Apelles  !  Will 
it  not  be  ?  It  you  be  ashamed  one  of  the  other,  by  my  consent  you  120 
shall  never  come  together.  But  dissemble  not,  Campaspe.  Doe 
you  love  Apelles  ? 

Camp.    Pardon,  my  lord  ;   I  love  Apelles. 

Alex.  Apelles,  it  were  a  shame  for  you,  being  loved  so  openly 
of  so  faire  a  virgin,  to  say  the  contrairie.  Do  you  love  Campaspe?  125 

Apel.    Onely  Campaspe  ! 

Alex.  Two  loving  wormes,  Hephestion  !  I  perceive  Alexander 
cannot  subdue  the  affections  of  men,  though  he 1  conquer  their 
countries.  Love  falleth,  like  a  dew,  as  well  upon  the  low  grasse  as 
upon  the  high  cedar.2  Sparkes  have  their  heate,  ants  their  gall,  130 
flies  their  spleene.  Well,  enjoy  one  another.  I  give  her  thee 
frankly,  Apelles.  Thou  shalt  see  that  Alexander  maketh  but  a  toy 
of  love  and  leadeth  affection  in  fetters,  using  fancie  as  a  foole  to 
make  him  sport  or  a  minstrell  to  make  him  merry.  It  is  not  the 
amorous  glance  of  an  eye  can  settle  an  idle  thought  in  the  heart.  135 
No,  no,  it  is  childrens  game,  a  life  for  seamsters  and  schollers ; 
the  one,  pricking  in  clouts,3  have  nothing  else  to  think  on  ;  the 
other,  picking  fancies  out  of  books,  have  little  else  to  marvaile 
at.  Go,  Apelles,  take  with  you  your  Campaspe ;  Alexander  is 
closed  with  looking  on  that  which  thou  wondrest  at.4  140 

Apel.  Thankes  to  your  Majestic  on  bended  knee  :  you  have  hon- 
oured Apelles. 

1  BI.  though  conquer.      F.  added  the  '  he.' 

2  See  Eupbucs  and  hh  England,  Arber,  256. 
8  Patching. 

4  "  What  good  reckoning  Alexander  made  of  him,  he  shewed  by  one  notable  argument ;  for 
having  among  his  courtesans  one  named  Campaspe,  whom  he  fancied  especially  in  regard  as 
well  of  that  affection  of  his  as  her  incomparable  beauty,  he  gave  commandement  to  Apt-lies  to 
draw  her  picture  all  naked;  but  perceiving  Apelles  at  the  same  time  to  be  wounded  with  the 
like  dart  of  love  as  well  as  himself,  he  bestowed  her  on  him  most  frankly.  Some  are  of  opin- 
ion that  by  the  patterne  of  this  Campaspe,  Apelles  made  the  picture  of  Venus  Anadyomene." 
Holland,  XXXV.  10.  The  name  really  was  Fancaste. 


33°     Alexander  and  Campaspe      [ACT.  v.  sc.  mi] 

Camp.    Thankes  with  bowed  heart  :  you  have  blessed  Campaspe. 

Exeunt  \_Apclles  and  Campaspe]. 

Alex.    Page,  goe  warne  Clytus  and   Parmenio  and  the  other  lords 
to  be  in  a  readinesse  ;  let  the  trumpet  sound  ;  strike  up  the  drumme;  145 
and  I  will  presently  into  Persia.      How  now,  Hephestion,  is  Alex- 
ander able  to  resist  love  as  he  list  ? 

Hep.    The  conquering  of  Thebes  was  not  so  honourable  as  the 
subduing  of  these  thoughts. 

Alex.  It  were  a  shame  Alexander  should,  desire  to  command  the  150 
world,  if  he  could  not  command  himselfe.  But  come,  let  us  goe. 
I  will  trie  whether  I  can  better  beare  my  hand  with  my  heart J  than 
I  could  with  mine  eye.  And,  good  Hephestion,  when  all  the  world 
is  wonne  and  every  country  is  thine  and  mine,  either  find  me  out 
another  to  subdue,  or,  of2  my  word  I  will  fall  in  love.  Exeunt.  155 

1  Alexander  refers  to  the  unfavorable  comment  of  Apelles  on  his  drawing,  p.  310,  1.  109. 

2  F.  on. 


FINIS 


THE    EPILOGUE    AT   THE 
BLACKE    FRIERS 

WHERE  the  rain  bow  toucheth  the  tree,  no  caterpillars  will  hang 
on  the  leaves  ;  where  the  gloworme  creepeth  in  the  night,  no  adder 
will  goe  in  the  day  :  wee  hope  in  the  eares  where  our  travailes  be 
lodged,  no  carping  shall  harbour  in  those  tongues.  Our  exercises 
must  be  as  your  judgment  is,  resembling  water,  which  is  alwayes  of  5 
the  same  colour  into  what  it  runneth.  In  the  Troyan  horse  lay 
couched  souldiers  with  children:; 1  and  in  heapes  of  many  words  we 
feare  divers  unfit  among  some  allowable.  But,  as  Demosthenes 
with  often  breathing  up  the  hill,  amended  his  stammering,  so  wee 
hope  with  sundrie  labours  against  the  haire2  to  correct  our  studies.  10 
If  the  tree  be  blasted  that  blossomes,  the  fault  is  in  the  winde  and 
not  in  the  root ;  and  if  our  pastimes  bee  misliked  that  have  beene 
allowed,  you  must  impute  it  to  the  malice  of  others  and  not  our 
endevour.  And  so  we  rest  in  good  case,  if  you  rest  well  content. 

1  Rnigjits.  uin^  2  Against  the  grain.      F. 


33' 


The  Epilogue  at  the  Court 

WE  cannot  tell  whether  wee  are  fallen  among  Diomedes  1  birdes 
or  his  horses,  —  the  one  received  some  men  with  sweet  notes,2  the 
other  bit  all  men  with  sharpe  teeth.  But,  as  Homer's  gods  con- 
veyed them  into  cloudes  whom  they  would  have  kept  from  curses, 
and,  as  Venus,  least  Adonis  should  be  pricked  with  the  stings  of  5 
adders,  covered  his  face  with  the  wings  of  swans,  so  wee  hope, 
being  shielded  with  your  Highnesse  countenance,  wee  shall,  though 
heare  3  the  neighing,-  yet  not  feele  the  kicking  of  those  jades,  and  re- 
ceive, though  no  prayse  —  which  we  cannot  deserve  —  yet  a  pardon, 
which  in  all  humilitie  we  desire.  As  yet  we  cannot  tell  what  we  10 
should  tearme  our  labours,  iron  or  bullion  ;  only  it  belongeth  to  your 
Majestic  to  make  them  fit  either  for  the  forge  or  the  mynt,  currant 
by  the  stampe  or  counterfeit  by  the  anvill.  For,  as  nothing  is  to  be 
called  white  unlesse  it  had  beene  named  white  by  the  first  creator,4 
so  can  there  be  nothing  thought  good  in  the  opinion  of  others  un-  15 
lesse  it  be  christened  good  by  the  judgement  of  your  selfe.  For  our 
selves,  againe,  we  are  like  these  torches  of  waxe,  of  which,  being  in 
your  Highnesse  hands,  you  may  make  doves  or  vultures,  roses  or 
nettles,  laurell  for  a  garland  or  ealder  for  a  disgrace.5 

1  A  king  of  Thrace  who  fed  his  horses  with  human  flesh. 

2  "  Birds  called   Diomeds.       Toothed   they  are,  and   they  have  eies  as  red  and  bright  as 
the    fire  :   otherwise   their    feathers   he  all   white.      Found  they   be   in   one   place,    innobled    for 
the   tombe  and   Temple   of    Diomedes,  on   the   coast   of  Apulia.      Their  manner  is  to  cry  with 
open  mouth  uncessantly  at  any  strangers  that  come  aland,  save  only  Grecians,  upon  whom  they 
wil  seem  to  fawne  and  make  signs  of  love  ...  as  descended  from  the  race  of  Diomedes."     Hol- 
land, X.  44. 

3  V.  following  Do.  unnecessarily  prints  'wee  heare.' 

4  Bl.  ireaturt.      \: .  first  printed  'creator.' 

5  Disgrace  attached  to  the  elder  because  it  was  the  tree  on  which  Judas  hanged  himself.      F. 


33* 


George  Peele 


THE   OLD   WIVES'    TALE 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and  Notes 
by  F.  B.  Gummere,  Ph.D., 
Professor  in  Haverford  College. 


CRITICAL   ESSAY 

Life.  —  George  Peele,  probably  sprung  from  a  Devonshire  family,  and 
the  son  of  James  Peele,  clerk  of  Christ's  Hospital,  is  known  to  have  been  in 
1565  a  free  scholar  of  the  grammar  school  connected  with  that  foundation. 
He  went  to  Oxford  in  1571  ;  studied  at  Broadgates  Hall,  now  Pembroke 
College,  and  at  Christ  Church;  took  his  B.A.  in  1577,  his  M.A.  in 
1579,  and  went  up  to  London  about  1580.  At  Oxford  he  already  had  the 
name  of  poet,  scholar,  and  dramatist.  He  was  married,  it  would  seem,  as 
early  as  1583,  to  a  wife  who  brought  him  some  property;  this,  however, 
soon  vanished,  and  left  the  poet  dependent  upon  his  wits.  Although  the 
stories  in  the  Jests  are  musty  old  tales,  fastened  upon  Peele,  it  is  unlikely 
that  they  settled  on  his  name  without  a  sense  of  fitness  on  the  part  of  a  pub- 
lic that  had  known  his  ways,  —  his  hopeless  lack  of  pence,  his  good  nature 
and  popularity,  his  shifts  to  beg,  borrow,  and  cozen.  With  Greene,  Nashe, 
Marlowe,  and  a  few  lesser  lights,  he  belonged  to  that  group  of  scholars  who 
wrote  plays,  translations,  occasional  poems,  pageants,  and  whatever  else 
would  find  a  market.  Now  and  then,  it  is  almost  certain,  he  appeared  as 
an  actor.  Of  his  dissolute  course  of  life,  its  misery  and  squalour,  there  can 
be  no  doubt  whatever;  "driven  as  myself,"  says  Greene,  "to  extreme 
shifts."  As  early  as  1579  Peele  had  made  trouble  for  his  father  ;  he  lived 
in  poverty;  and  the  curtain  falls  upon  an  ignoble  end.  Dying  before  1598, 
the  poet  barely  saw  his  fortieth  year. 

Plays  assigned  to  Peele.  —  The  best  plays  of  Peele  are  The  Ar- 
raignment of  Paris,  published  in  1584,  and,  in  Fleay's  opinion,  played 
as  early  as  1581,  —  a  "first  encrease,"  Nashe  calls  it,  written  in 
smooth  metres  which  doubtless  had  influence  on  Marlowe's  own 
verse;  The  Old  fives'  Tale,  published  1595;  and  the  saccharine 
David  and  Bethsabe,  beloved  of  German  critics.  Edward  /.,  with 
wofully  corrupt  text,  is  good  only  in  parts  ;  The  Battle  of  dlcazar, 
published  anonymously  in  1594,  is  almost  certainly  Peele's,  but 
does  not  help  his  reputation  ;  while  Sir  Clyomon  and  Sir  Clamydes  is 

335 


336  George    Peele 

quite  certainly  not  Peele's  in  any  way.  Fleay,  Biographical  Chroni- 
cle of  the  English  Drama,  II.  296,  assigns  it,  along  with  Common 
Conditions  and  Appius  and  Virginia,  to  R.  B.  (Richard  Bower?), 
whose  initials  appear  on  the  title-page  of  the  last-named  play. 
Professor  Kittredge,  however,  'Journal  of  Germanic  Philology,  II.  8, 
suggests,  as  author  of  Sir  Clyomon,  Thomas  Preston  of  Carnbyses 
fame.  By  way  of  compensation  for  this  loss,  Fleay  (work  quoted, 
II.  155)  attributes  to  Peele  The  Wisdome  of  Doctor  Doddipoll,  pub- 
lished in  1600  ;  there  is  dialect  in  the  play,  but  overdone,  good  blank 
verse,  and  an  indifferent  plot.  The  song,  IVbat  Thing  is  Love, 
hardly  makes  foundation  enough  for  the  assumption  that  Peele 
wrote  the  play,  even  with  the  aid  of  an  enchanter  among  the  char- 
acters, and  a  metre  like  that  of  David  and  Bethsabe.  Further, 
Fleay  presents  our  author  with  IVily  Beguiled,  possibly,  he  thinks,  a 
university  play  ;  but  his  proof  is  not  convincing.  Kirkman,  in  a 
catalogue  of  plays  added  to  his  edition  of  Tom  Tiler  and  his  Wife, 
1 66 1,  credits  George  Peele  not  only  with  David  and  Bethsabe,  but 
with  dlphonsus,  Emperor  of  Germany,  while  Will  Shakespeare  has  the 
Arraignment  of  Paris.  The  Old  Wives'  Tale  is  set  down  as  anony- 
mous. 

In  regard  to  Peele's  miscellaneous  and  occasional  poetry  there 
need  be  noted  here  only  his  clever  use  of  blank  verse  in  shorter 
poems,  his  charming  lyrics,  and  those  noble  lines  at  the  end  of  the 
Polyhymnia,  beginning  — 

"  His  golden  locks  time  hath  to  silver  turn'd." 

Peele's  Place  in  the  Development  of  English  Drama.  —  Although  we 
had  a  text  of  absolute  authority  and  a  minutely  accurate  life  of  the 
author,  we  should  gain  with  all  this  lore  no  real  stay  for  a  study,  a 
critical  understanding  of  The  Old  H/ives"1  Talc,  regarded  as  an  ele- 
ment in  the  making  of  English  comedy.  Peele  and  his  play,  along 
with  any  hints  of  sources  and  models  that  arc  to  be  heeded,  and 
with  whatever  help  may  come  from  study  of  his  other  works,  must 
be  fused  into  a  single  fact  and  compared  with  those  "environmental 
conditions "  which  influence  all  literary  production.  This  will 
determine  the  equation  between  art  and  nature,  between  the  cen- 
trifugal forces,  which  are  always  expressing  themselves  in  terms  of 


George    Pee/e  337 

what  is  called  genius  or  originality,  and  the  centripetal  forces  of  a 
great  literary  and  popular  development.  It  will  determine  the  rela- 
tion of  Peele's  comedy  to  the  line  of  English  comedies. 

Such  a  critical  process  leaves  one  with  two  qualities  in  mind  that 
seem  to  have  had  an  initial  force.  They  belong  to  Peele  on  con- 
temporary testimony  confirmed  by  a  study  of  his  works.  Tom 
Nashe,  more  in  eulogy  than  in  discrimination,  yet  surely  not  without 
a  dash  of  critical  discernment,  calls  Peele  "  the  chief  supporter  of 
pleasance  now  living,  the  atlas  of  poetry,  and  primus  verborum  arti- 
fex "  i 

Nashe  undoubtedly  flatters,  but  another  of  the  "  college,"  Greene, 
in  that  death-bed  appeal  to  his  brother  playwrights,  was  in  no  mood 
for  flattery;  and  it  is  probably  sincere,  even  if  mistaken,  praise  when 
he  calls  Peele  "  in  some  things  rarer,  in  nothing  inferior,"  to  Mar- 
lowe, and  to  that  "  young  juvenall  "  who  may  be  Nashe  or  Lodge. 
In  what  things  Peele  was  "  rarer,"  Greene  fails  to  say,  but  a  study 
of  The  Arraignment  of  Paris,  of  David  and  Bethsabe,  even  of  portions 
of  Edward  /.,  and  of  the  Battle  of  Alcazar,  supports  the  reputation  of 
Peele  as  an  artist  in  words,  and  in  prose  as  "well-languaged";  while 
in  The  Old  Wivei  Tale  there  greets  the  critic,  not  too  openly,  it  is 
true,  but  unmistakably,  the  quality  of  humour.  Moreover,  there 
are  the  Jests  which,  apocryphal  as  they  doubtless  are,  and  sorry 
stuff  by  any  reckoning,  nevertheless  show  that  to  people  of  his  day 
Peele  was  counted  a  merry  fellow,  a  humourist  in  our  sense  of  the 
word.2  Perhaps  Shakespeare's  jests  would  seem  as  stale  and  flat  if 
we  had  the  anecdotes  that  passed  current  among  his  successors  at 
the  playhouse.  In  any  case,  George  had  a  sense  of  humour  which 

1  "To  the  Gentlemen  Students  of  both   Universities,"   prefixed  to  Greene's  Mcnapbon, 
a  well-known   passage.       Little,  if  anything,  can  be  made  of  Meres  when  (Haslewood,  II., 
153)  he  couples  Peele  now  with   Ariosto,  now,  as  tragical  poet,  with  Apollodorus  Tarsensis. 
He  does  not  name  Peele  among  the  writers  of  comedy.      Later,  in  Have  ivitb   You  to  Sajfrcn 
Walden    (Grosart,  III.  196),  Nashe,  with    no    mention  of  Peele,  concedes  to   Greene  mas- 
tery, above  all  the  craft,  in  "plotting  of  plaies. "      This  dramatic  art  of  words,  by  the  way, 
must  not  be  confused  with  Euphuistic  feats.      Greene,  Nashe,  even  Harvey,  turned  with  Sidney 
against  mere  "playing  with  words  and  idle  similies,"  and  Peele  is  anything  but  a  follower  of 
Guevara. 

2  Mcrrie  conceited   Jests  of   George    Peele,    Gentleman,   sometimes    a    Student  in    Oxford. 
Wherein  is  shelved  the  count  of  bis  life,  boiv  be  lived :   a  man  -very  ivell  knoivne  in  the  Citie 
of  London  and  elsewhere.    .    .    .      There  was  an  edition  in  1607,  hardly  ten  years  after  Peele's 
death. 


338  George    Peele 

found  utterance  in  this  Old  Jf^ivei  Tale ;  it  is  not  the  classical 
humour  of  Roister  Doister,  not  the  hearty  but  clumsy  mirth  of  Gam- 
mer Gurton,  but  rather  a  hint  of  the  extravagant  and  romantic  which 
turns  upon  itself  with  audible  merriment  at  its  own  pretences,  a 
hint,  not  of  farce  or  of  wit  merely,  but  of  genuine  humour,  some- 
thing not  to  be  found  in  Greene's  lighter  work,1  or  in  Lyly's 
Mother  Bombie,  or  in  any  of  those  earlier  plays  that  did  fealty  to 
the  comic  muse.  Such,  then,  is  the  contemporary  formula  for 
Peele  as  a  power  in  the  making  of  English  drama:  "primus  verborum 
artifex"  and  "  chief  supporter  of  pleasance."  He  was  an  artist  in 
words,  and  he  had  the  gift  of  humour. 

As  regards  this  artistry  in  words,  it  is  well  known  that  the  con- 
ditions of  English  life,  the  vigour  of  speech  as  quickened  by  inter- 
course in  the  street,  the  market-place,  the  exchange,  where  a  spoken 
word  even  in  traffic  and  commerce  still  counted  better  than  a 
written  word,  dialogue  and  conversation  better  than  oratory,  and  the 
conditions  of  the  stage  itself,  with  its  slender  resources  of  scenery 
and  its  confident  appeal  to  the  imagination,  all  helped  to  push  this 
pomp  and  mastery  of  phrase  into  the  forefront  of  an  Elizabethan 
playwright's  qualifications.  Probably  the  spectator  at  a  play  felt 
something  of  the  interest  which  was  then  so  rife  in  the  world  of 
books  and  learning,  —  the  interest  in  words  as  words,  in  the  course 
of  a  sentence  as  indicating  more  or  less  triumph  over  a  still  un- 
trained tongue.  Nietzsche  is  extravagant  but  suggestive  in  certain 
remarks  that  bear  upon  this  verbal  artistry  in  the  drama.  Speaking 
of  Nature  and  Art,2  he  insists  that  the  Greeks  taught  men  to  like 
pompous  dramatic  verse  and  an  unnatural  eloquence  in  those  tragic 
situations  where  mere  nature  is  either  stammering  or  silent.  The 

O 

Italians  went  further  and  taught  us  to  endure,  in  the  opera,  some- 
thing still  more  artificial  and  unnatural  —  a  passion  which  not  only 

1  The  Looking  Glasse  for  London  and  England  has  sonic-  boisterous  comedy,  but  no  humour. 
In  Gcorge-a-Greenr,  good  play  that  it  is,  the  ballad  material  is  taken  quite  seriously.  In  Friar 
Bacon  and  Friar  Butigay  there  is  exquisite  idyllic  work,  a  dash  of  passable,  though  quite  tradi- 
tional, comedy,  but  no  trace  of  the  peculiar  element,  presently  to  be  described  as  the  dominant 
note  of  treatment  in  The  Old  ffi-vcs'  Tale. 

'2  Frijblicbe  fFissenscbaft,  p.  109  f.  So  in  his  Gehurt  drr  Tm^Zilif,  p.  89,  speaking  of  the 
prologue  as  used  by  Euripides,  which  told  in  advance  the  action  ot  the  play,  Niet/sche  asserts  that 
the  Athenians  were  less  interested  in  the  plot  than  in  the  pathos  of  situations  and  the  rhetoric 
of  thj  players. 


George    Peele  339 

declaims,  but  sings.  Tragic  eloquence,  sundered  from  nature,  feeds 
that  pride  which  "loves  art  as  the  expression  of  a  high  heroic 
unnaturalness  and  conventionality."  "  The  Athenian,"  Nietzsche 
goes  on  to  say  with  cheerful  heresy,  "went  into  the  theatre  not  to 
be  roused  by  pity  and  terror,  but  to  listen  to  fine  speeches."  One 
is  inclined  to  think  that  this  desire  for  fine  speeches  had  a  large 
share  in  the  motive  which  sent  an  Elizabethan  to  the  play.  Cer- 
tainly the  drama  responded  to  this  demand  more  quickly  than  to 
any  demand  for  coherence  of  plot  and  delicacy  of  characterization. 
Who  led  in  this  movement?  Most  critics  brush  aside  all  rivals 
from  the  path  of  Marlowe  and  credit  him  alone  with  the  "  mighty 
line,"  the  pomp  of  diction,  the  sweep  of  word  and  figure,  which 
brought  the  drama  from  those  puerilities  of  phrase  and  manner  up 
to  its  noble  estate.  This  is  true  in  the  sense  that  Marlowe  was 
infinitely  greater  as  a  poet  and  a  tragedian  than  either  Greene  or 
Peele.  But  as  verborum  artifex  it  is  probable  that  Marlowe  has  had 
considerable  credit  which  belongs  to  the  others,  particularly  Peele  ; 
and  the  testimony  of  Nashe  and  Greene,  who  knew  the  craft,  must 
not  be  rejected  so  utterly.  Campbell,  it  is  true,  praised  Peele  as 
"  the  oldest  genuine  dramatic  poet  of  our  language  "  ;  but  Symonds, 
and  with  him  are  such  scholars  as  Mr.  A.  W.  Ward,  asserts  that 
Peele  "discovered  no  new  vein."  Symonds  is  inclined  to  look  on 
Greene  as  herald  J  and  Marlowe  as  founder ;  Peele  is  a  pleasant  but 
unimportant  maker  of  plays  and  verse.  Greene,  he  thinks,  began 
the  school  of  gentleman  and  scholars  who  wrote  for  the  stage  at  a 
time  when  rhyming  plays  were  in  vogue;  but  none  of  those  which 
Greene  wrote  has  come  down  to  our  day.  Marlowe  now  comes 
imperiously  upon  the  scene,  forces  his  blank  verse  into  favour,  and  is 
at  last  reluctantly  admitted  by  Greene  and  the  others  into  their 
"college."  So  runs  the  theory  of  Symonds.  Quite  opposed  to 
this  view  of  the  case  is  Mr.  Fleay,  who  declares  that  Marlowe 
followed  George  Peele  in  the  article  of  "flowing  blank  verse."2 
There  can  be  no  question,  moreover,  that  certain  critics  have 
exalted  Greene  too  high  and  put  Peele  too  low.  Peele  had  quite 

1  "The  romantic  play,  the  English  Farsa,  may  be  called  in  a  great  measure  his  discovery." 
Shakespeare's  Prtdccestort,  p.   580. 

2  "  A  matter  in  which  he  certainly  anticipated  Marlowe,"   Biog.   Cbron.  II.   151. 


34°  George    Peele 

as  much  as  Greene  to  do  with  the  refining  and  energizing  of  Eng- 
lish dramatic  diction,  a  process  aptly  described  by  Thomas  Hey- 
wood  in  his  Apology  for  Actors:^  "  Our  English  tongue  ...  is  now 
by  this  secondary  meanes  of  playing  continually  refined,  every  writer 
striving  in  himselfe  to  adde  a  new  florish  unto  it."  Plots  remained 
clumsy,  crude;  but  what  change  in  the  diction  of  plays  !  In  Jppius 
and  Virginia  there  is  still  puerile  diction  and  jog-trot  metre,  — 

"  They  framed  also  after  this,  out  of  his  tender  side, 
A  piece  of  much  formosity,  with  him  for  to  abide." 

From  this  to  blank  verse  and  compressed  or  energetic  diction,  as 
(Jeronimo),  — 

"  My  knee  sings  thanks  unto  your  Highness  bounty,"  — 

is  a  progress  involving  vast  reformings,  and  some  deformings,2 
in  diction  and  in  metre,  of  such  sweep  that  Elizabethans  put  these 
qualities  first  when  they  went  about  to  judge  a  play.  "  Your  nine 
comoedies,"  writes  Harvey  to  Spenser,  come  nearer  to  Ariosto's, 
"  eyther  for  the  finenesse  of  plausible  Elocution,  or  the  rareness  of 
Poetical  Invention,"  than  the  Faery  Queene  to  the  Orlando  Furioso. 
In  this  ennobling  of  diction,  Peele  may  not  have  led  the  column  of 
playwrights,  but  he  was  certainly  in  the  van.  His  achievement 
must  not  be  dashed  by  a  comparison  with  Shakespeare,  who  cov- 
ered up  absurdities  of  plot  —  as  in  the  Merchant  of  J'enice  —  by 
brilliant  characterization,  where  this  earlier  group  depended  upon 
the  art  of  words.3  For  the  related  art  of  brave  metres,  of  a  "  flow- 
ing blank  verse  "  in  plays,  we  have  no  space  to  argue  upon  the 
claims  of  leadership.  Enough  is  done  for  the  matter  if  one  remem- 
bers that  Peele,  who  wrote  admirable  blank  verse  before  Marlowe 
was  out  of  his  teens,  had  nothing  to  learn  from  the  greater  poet 

1  Ed.  Shakespeare  Society,  1841,  p.  52. 

2  Peele  is  not  of  the  extreme  group  whose  feats  in  diction  remind  one  of  what  Dr.  Johnson 
said  about  the  metaphysical  poets,  that  "their  wish  was  only  to  say  what  they  hoped  had  never 
been  said  before." 

3  Gosson,  in  a  well-known   passage,   puts  brave   language  first   among    dramatic   attractions : 
"sweetness  of  words,  fitness  of  epithets,  with  metaphors,  allegories.    .    .    ." 


George    Peele  341 

about  the  management  of  this  metre  in  and  for  itself.1  Certainly 
he  got  more  music  out  of  the  pentameter  than  any  earlier  dramatist 
had  done;  witness  such  a  movement  as, — 

«'  What  sign  is  rainy  and  what  star  is  fair," 
or,— 

"  And  water  running  from  the  silver  spring." 

The  Old  Wives'  Tale,  an  Innovation  in  Comedy.  —  It  may  be  conceded 
that  Pecle  "  discovered  no  new  vein  "  in  diction  and  in  metre, 
although  his  work  in  each  was  of  a  high  order,  not  far  removed 
from  leadership.  Different  is  the  case  when  one  considers  his 
claims  for  innovation  in  comedy.  He  was  the  first  to  blend 
romantic  drama  with  a  realism  which  turns  romance  back  upon 
itself,  and  produces  the  comedy  of  subconscious  humour.  The 
tragedies,  and  even  the  miracle  plays,  while  extravagant  in  form, 
had  not  been  altogether  unnatural  in  action.  The  supernatural  in 
that  age  was  not  unnatural.  The  unnatural  was  mainly  confined 
to  the  diction.  Gradually,  as  every  one  knows,  the  romantic  ele- 
ment, in  a  wide  sense,  got  upper  hand  and  ruled  the  English  drama. 
In  The  Old  Wives'  Tale  this  romantic  spirit  comes  in,  not  as  a  new 
element,  but  as  a  new  kind  of  "  art  "  grafted  upon  the  "  nature  " 
of  the  rough  and  comic  stock  ;  and  to  the  reader's  surprise  draws 
away  all  unnaturalness  from  the  dialogue,  which  is  now  plain, 
natural,  commonplace.2  Realism  in  diction  was  no  new  thing; 
romance  in  plot  was  not  an  innovation  ;  it  was  the  clash,  the  inter- 
play, the  subjective  element,  the  appeal  to  something  more  than 
a  literal  understanding  of  what  is  said  and  done,  a  new  appeal  to 
a  deeper  sense  of  humour  —  here  lay  the  new  vein  discovered  by 
George  Peele.  The  romantic  drama,  we  repeat,  was  known  ;  wit- 
ness that  little  group  of  "  folk-lore  romances,"  as  Mr.  Fleay  calls 
them,  Common  Conditions,  Sir  Cly onion  and  Sir  Clarnydes,  and  Appius 
and  Virginia  ;  the  two  former  are  full  of  adventures,  of  amorous 
knights  and  wandering  ladies,  a  Forest  of  Strange  Marvels,  an  Isle 

1  Lammerhirt  counts  nearly  84  per  cent  of  the  verses  in  the  Arraignment  of  Paris  as  rhymed  ; 
David  and  Rctbsahe  has  less  than  7  per  cent,  and  The  Battle  of  Alca-zar  barely  3  per  cent. 

2  The  diction  of  The  Old  Wives'  Talc  differs  from  Lyly's  comic  prose  much  as  Nashe's  style 
in  his  pamphlets  differs  from  the  periods  of  Lyly's  Eufbuet. 


34 2  George    Peele 

of  Strange  Marshes,  what  not.  In  all  of  them,  however,  the 
romance  is  presented  in  unnatural  diction,  to  suit  such  unnatural 
doings,  and  justifies  those  bitter  words  of  the  Second  and  Third  Blast 
of  Retrait  from  Plates  and  Theaters,1  that  "  the  notablest  lier  is 
become  the  best  Poet  ...  for  the  strangest  Comedie  brings  greatest 
delectation  .  .  .  faining  countries  neuer  heard  of,  monsters  and  pro- 
digious creatures  that  are  not.  ..."  A  milder  romantic  drama,  but 
without  the  humour  which  we  mean,  is  Greene's  Orlando  Furioso. 
The  other  plays,  however,  have  no  humour  at  all  except  the  tradi- 
tional humour  of  the  Vice  ;  and  of  the  three  representatives,  Condi- 
tions, who  finally  turns  pirate,  is  certainly  a  far  merrier  person  than 
Haphazard  in  dppius  or  Subtle  Shift  in  Sir  Clyomon.  There  is 
realistic  setting  in  Common  Conditions,  with  some  lively  dialogue, 
and  a  distinctly  catching  song  and  chorus2  of  tinkers,  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  play.  It  is  "  business  "  here,  however,  not  that  dramatic 
irony,  springing  from  contrast  of  romantic  plot  and  realistic  diction, 
which  makes  a  sufficiently  timid  beginning  in  The  Old  Wives 
Tale,  and  grows  so  insistent  in  The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle. 
Moreover,  Peele's  realistic  work  shows  the  control  and  conscious- 
ness of  a  higher  art.  There  are  no  peasants  like  Hodge  in  Gammer 
Gurton,  Conn  in  Sir  Clyomon,  and  Hob  and  Lob  in  Cambyses.8 
There  is  an  outburst  or  two  of  yokel  wit  in  Peele's  play  ;  but  there 
is  no  breaking  of  heads,  no  chance  for  the  clown  to  sing  a  song 
while  drunk,  as  Hance  does  in  the  interlude  of  Like  ft^il  to  Like. 
These  signs  of  a  subtler  conception  of  his  art  should  be  placed 
to  Peele's  credit ;  for  while  an  obvious  dialect  marks  Hodge  and 
Corin  and  the  rest,  Clunch  and  Madge  speak  a  plain  English,  re- 
minding one  irresistibly  of  the  milk-woman's  talk  with  Piscator : 
it  smacks  of  cottage  and  field  and  hedge-rows  and,  as  Nashe  would 
say,  has  "old  King  Harrie  sinceritie."  There  is  a  difference  as 
between  the  exaggerated  "  hayseed  "  of  a  comic  paper  and  the  finer 
drawing  in  one  of  Hardy's  peasants.  Exaggeration  would  spoil  the 

1  Kd.  W.  C.  Hazlitt,  Roxburgh  Library,   1869,  p.   145. 

2  See  the  song  in  Appius,  "  Hope  so  and  hap  so."  — In  flfisogonus,  the  Vice  appears  as  a 
domestic  fool. 

3  Compare  the  French  and  broken  English   in    Three   Lords  and   Three   Ladia   of  London, 
the  dialect  of  Bohan  the  Scot  in  Greene's  James  If^.,  and  the  inevitable  Welshman. 


George    Peele  343 

sense  of  contrast  between  honest  Madge  and  the  high  pretences  of 
the  plot.  In  Huanebango  there  is  girding  not  only  at  Harvey,  but 
at  the  romance  hero  in  general  ;  this  big-mouthed,  impossible  fellow, 
with  Corebus  as  a  foil,  foreshadows,  however  dimly,  the  far  more 
clever  presentation  of  an  English  Don  Quixote  in  the  person  of  Ralph. 
A  second  element  of  humour  in  this  realistic  treatment  of 
romance  is  the  use  ot  an  induction,  or  rather  of  a  combination 
of  the  induction  and  the  play  within  the  play,  as  a  means  of  ex- 
pressing dramatic  irony.  Although  the  induction  springs  from  the 
prologue,  and  although  the  opening  of  The  Old  Wives'  Tale  is  tech- 
nically an  induction,  like  many  another  of  the  time,  it  has  to  our 
thinking  a  distinctly  new  vein.  What  Schwab1  calls  the  first 
example  of  the  use  of  an  induction  —  in  The  Rare  Triumphs  of  Love 
and  Fortune — makes  both  induction  and  play  connected  parts  of  a 
whole.  It  is  a  dramatic  device,  wholly  objective  in  character, 
external,  with  no  demand  upon  the  sense  of  contrast.  Different, 
but  hardly  a  new  idea,2  is  the  induction  as  employed  by  Greene  in 
Alpbomus  and  James  IV. ;  here  is  a  return  to  the  old  notion  of  the 
prologue,  a  justifying  of  the  playwright's  way.  Will  Summer, 
the  pet  jester,3  who  ushers  in  Nashe's  play,  calls  himself  outright 
a  kind  of  chorus.  In  the  old  Taming  of  a  Shrew,  printed  in  1594, 
Sly,  while  only  a  casual  commentator  upon  the  play,  is  entirely 
outside  of  the  main  action,  which,  as  Schwab  points  out,  thus  be- 
comes an  actual  play  within  the  play.  Still,  even  in  these  cases, 
the  contrast  is  objective  and  direct.  The  induction  is  a  clever 
device  to  heighten  interest  in  the  play.  Before,  it  had  served  the 
playwright  as  an  expression  of  his  purpose  in  the  main  drama ; 
later,  as  with  Ben  Jonson,  it  voiced  his  critical  opinions.  Whether 
objective  or  subjective,  however,  the  contrast  between  play  and 
induction  is  direct.  Quite  different  is  that  induction,  which  Schwab 
rightly  calls  remarkable,  in  The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle;  and 
different,  too,  is  that  earlier  attempt,  which  Schwab  unaccountably 
fails  to  mention,  in  The  Old  Wives'  Tale.  These  both  appeal  to  a 

1  Das  Scbauiptel  im  Scbauspiel,  Wien  and  Leipzig,  1896. 

-  "  A    new  m'jtii>,"  says  Schwab.      Fleay  (work  quoted,  I.  266)  thinks  The  Old  Wi-vct 
Tale  fairly  parodies  the  induction  in  James  If. 

3  See  a  similar  bit  of  horse-play  in  ffi/y  Beguiled. 


344  George    Peele 

sense  of  humour  awakened  by  the  interplay  of  theme  and  treatment, 
of  character  and  situation.  In  Peele's  play  this  involution  of  epic, 
drama,  and  comment  —  a  seeming  confusion  which  has  distressed 
many  of  the  critics  —  really  heightens  the  dramatic  power  of  the 
piece.  The  induction  is  double.  First  come  a  bit  of  romance, 
with  the  lost  wanderers  in  the  wood,  and  a  realistic  foil  in  their  own 
dialogue  —  by  no  means  the  "heavy  prose"  of  Collier's  censure. 
Secondly  comes  outright  realism  with  Clunch,  Madge,  the  bread  and 
cheese,  and  the  old  joke  about  bedfellows,  cleverly  followed  by 
Madge's  abrupt  raid  upon  romantic  ground.  She  is  well  started, 
but  stumbling,  when  the  other  actors  break  in  ;  and  the  inner  play, 
not  without  some  confusion  and  mystification,  runs  its  course. 
Perhaps  the  sense  of  huddling,  abruptness,  confusion,  is  inten- 
tional as  part  of  an  old  wives'  tale  indeed ;  perhaps,  again,  this 
must  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  Peele's  carelessness  in  "  plotting 
plaies."  Be  that  as  it  may  be,  the  interplay  of  these  elements 
makes  a  new  kind  of  comedy  ;  and  the  humour  of  this  play,  crude 
and  tentative  as  it  seems  when  compared  with  the  humour  of  Uncle 
Toby  *  and  of  those  lesser  lights  that  revolve  in  the  orbit  of  the 
Quixotic  contrast,  differs  from  earlier  essays  of  the  sort  in  that  it 
is  not  a  separate  element  of  fun,  but  rather  something  which  exists 
in  solution  with  the  comedy  itself.  The  Old  [fives'  Tale  lies 
midway  between  the  utter  lack  of  coherence  in  Nashe's  play  and 
the  subtlety  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Will  Summer  is  often 
irrelevant  and  tiresome  ;  the  main  action,  on  which  he  comments, 
is  now  pathetic,  now  farcical,  now  merely  spectacular  j  but  in  our 
play  the  thread  of  romance  runs  throughout  unbroken  and  keeps 
the  piece  in  a  sort  of  unity,  while  the  comment,  whether  direct  or 
hinted,  has  a  vastly  finer  vein  of  irony.  The  romantic  side  of 
folk-lore  has  its  due  withal,  as  in  the  test  of  fidelity  at  the  end 
between  Eumenides  and  Jack,  with  the  proposed  division  of  Delia 
—  a  cfisus  always  acceptable  to  such  an  audience,  and  here  of  acute 
though  subordinate  interest.  Moreover,  Peele  has  a  kind  of  reti- 
cence and  control  in  his  art  ;  he  suggests  in  a  whisper  what  Will 
Summer  would  have  roared  into  commonplace  and  horse-play. 

1  The  delicate  irony  of  later  triflings  with  romance  —  as  in  Wieland's    Oberon — is,   of 
course,  quite  out  of  the  question. 


George   Peele  345 

The  Background  of  Folk-Lore.  —  Finally,  the  very  Old  fives'  Tale 
itself,  with  its  background  of  folk-lore,  that  tryst  of  ancient  splen- 
dour with  modern  poverty  and  ignorance  on  the  territory  of  a  for- 
gotten faith,  is  a  thing  of  quietly  humorous  contrasts.  Several 
elements  are  to  be  considered  in  the  charming  little  medley  which 
Peele  has  made  from  the  folk-lore  of  his  day  —  "that  curious 
melange  of  nursery  tales,"  as  Mr.  Joseph  Jacobs  calls  it.  The 
enchanter  and  his  spells,  the  stolen  daughter  and  her  brothers'  quest, 
make  a  familiar  central  group.  Perhaps  Madge  set  out  to  tell  the 
story  of  Childe  Rowland,  familiar  to  Elizabethans,1  although  Jack  the 
Giant  Killer  has  his  claims.  Tht  fee-fa-fum,  as  every  one  knows, 
occurs  also  in  Shakespeare's  Lear.  The  help  of  the  White  Bear  — 
a  transformation,  like  the  saws  and  prophecies,  sufficiently  familiar 
in  these  tales  —  is  similar  to  that  of  Merlin  in  Childe  Rowland ;  but 
the  ghost  of  Jack  reminds  one  of  the  other  story.  Mr.  Jacobs 
quotes  Kennedy  that  in  a  parallel  Irish  tale  "  Jack  the  servant  is 
the  spirit  of  the  buried  man."  One  has  only  to  make  this  substi- 
tution, and  the  vicarious  gratitude  of  the  Giant  Killer2  is  better 
explained.  Perhaps,  too,  Peele  has  borrowed  some  of  his  thunder 
and  lightning,  as  well  as  Huanebango's  fee-fa-fmn,  from  the 
giants  ;  and  the  disenchantment  at  the  hands  of  an  invisible  hero 
may  belong,  in  part,  to  this  tale.  Two  other  folk-tales  may  be 
named  —  The  Well  of  the  IVorld^s  End,  mentioned,  if  a  slight 
emendation  be  allowed,  in  The  Complaynt  of  Scotland,  and  The  Three 
Heads  of  the  Jf^ell —  as  known,  in  some  form,  to  Peele,  and  used 
directly  in  the  story  of  the  two  daughters.  The  familiar  theme  of 
the  so-called  "  death  index  "  3  is  touched  but  slightly  ;  and  perhaps 
it  is  unnecessary  to  go  to  the  Red  Ettln  for  a  parallel  to  Huane- 
bango  and  Corebus,  who  respectively  refuse  and  give  a  piece  of 
cake  to  the  helpful  old  man.  The  theme  is  common  in  folk-lore. 

1  See   English   Fairy    Tales,  J.   Jacobs,  edition   of  1898,    pp.    243,    245.      A   monograph 
could  be  written   on   the   folk-lore   of  this   play,  where,  it   is  to  be  conjectured,  Peele  has   fol- 
lowed no  single  tale,  but  has  combined  parts  of  separate  stories,  and  flung  in  bits  of  rhyme  and 
fragments  of  superstition,  as  fancy  bade  him. 

2  English  Fairy  Tales,  p.   104.      This  theme  of  the  Thankful  Dead  is  extremely  common. 
It  is  found  in  an  old  English  romance,  Sir  Amadace,  and   has  been  treated  by  Max   Hippo,  in 
Herrig's  Arcbi-v,  Vol.  LXXXI,  p.   141. 

8  Jacobs,  English  Fairy  Tales,  Notes,  p.  252.      See  also  Frazer's  Golden  Bough. 


346  George    Peele 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  show  a  liking 
for  folk-tales,  as  well  as  for  traditional  songs  and  ballads,  in  that 
play,  which  by  its  induction  and  general  spirit  most  closely  resembles 
this  Old  Wives'  Tale.  More  dignified  sources  were  long  ago  pointed 
out  by  Warton,  who  remarked  that  "  the  names  of  some  of  the 
characters  .  .  .  are  taken  from  the  Orlando  Furioso."  Meroe,  in 
Apuleius,  was  invoked.  But  it  seems  clear  enough  that  English 
folk-lore  must  be  the  mainstay  of  critics  who  think  all  is  done  for 
a  work  of  literature  when  they  have  found  out  every  possible  and 
impossible  source  for  plot,  sideplot,  and  allusion. 

Literary  Estimate.  —  The  marvel,  after  all,  is  not  that  these  mate- 
rials are  huddled  and  confused  in  the  combination  ;  the  confusion 
is  part  of  the  artistic  process,  and  if  the  figures  move  across  the 
stage  without  firm  connection  one  with  the  other,  that,  too,  is  done 
after  the  manner  of  the  old  tale.  We  are  on  romantic  ground, 
and  are  to  see  by  glimpses.  Here  is  no  comedy  of  incident,  in  the 
usual  meaning  of  the  term,  no  comedy  of  intrigue  or  of  manners. 
It  is  rathc'r  a  comedy  of  comedies,  a  saucy  challenge  of  romance, 
where  art  turns,  however  timidly,  upon  itself.  Perhaps  Peele  wrote 
this  play,  as  Dryden  wrote  All  for  Love,  to  please  himself.  Un- 
questionably, until  Mr.  Bullen  made  a  plea  for  mercy,  The  Old 
[fives'  Tale  had  been  shamefully  treated.  Collier1  calls  it  "  noth- 
ing but  a  beldam's  story,  with  little  to  recommend  it  but  heavy 
prose  and  not  much  lighter  blank  verse,"  a  most  inadequate  sum- 
mary from  any  point  of  view.  The  play,  he  thinks,  has  u  a  dis- 
gusting quantity  of  trash  and  absurdity."  Dyce,  while  regarding 
Peele's  u  superiority  to  Greene  "  as  "  unquestionable,"  is  not  en- 
thusiastic about  The  Old  Wives'  Tale.  Mr.  Ward  speaks2  of  "  the 
labyrinthine  intricacy  of  the  main  scenes,"  knows  not  whether  to 
call  it  farce  or  interlude,  and  would  pass  it  by  save  for  the  suggestion 
of  Comus.  But  Mr.  Bullen  very  properly  objects  to  this  unfair  com- 
parison. Symonds,  to  be  sure,  uses  it  even  more  unfairly.  The 
Old  [fives'  Tale,  he  makes  bold  to  say,  is  the  sow's  ear  to  Milton's 
silk  purse.3  With  an  unusual  blindness  to  literary  perspective, 

1  Annah  r,f  Stagr,  etc.,  III.   197.  -  E"g.  Dram.  Lit.  I.   372. 

3  Kbakespe arc1  s  Predecessors,  p.    563  ff.        Mr.  Jacobs  thinks  that   both  poets  went  to  folk- 
lore for  their  materials.       Cbi/Je  Roiv/anJ  is  the  probable  source. 


George   Peele  347 

Symonds  goes  on  to  judge  this  flickering  little  candle  of  romance, 
folk-lore,  and  half-roguish,  half-ironical  suggestion,  by  the  sun- 
blaze  of  Milton's  high  seriousness  and  full  poetic  splendours.  Peele, 
it  seems,  does  not  "  lift  his  subject  into  the  heavens  of  poetry.  .  .  . 
The  wizard  is  a  common  conjurer.  The  spirit  is  a  vulgar  village 
ghost."  Whv  not,  pray  ?  What  should  they  be  for  the  purposes 
of  this  old  wives'  tale  ?  What  would  be  left,  say,  of  Chaucer's 
charming  little  story,  that  "folye,  as  of  a  fox,  or  of  a  cok  and  hen," 
if  one  were  to  pulverize  it  with  such  critical  tools  ?  Peele  is  not 
trying  to  raise  comedy  into  the  heavens  ;  he  left  that  for  his  betters  ; 
and  the  ineffectual  Delia  is  a  long  remove  from  Hermia  and  Helena 
in  the  "  wood  near  Athens."  What  Peele,  George  Peele  of  the 
dingy  jests,  probably  tried  to  do,  and  what  he  surely  succeeded  in 
doing,  was  to  bring  a  new  and  more  subtle  strain  of  humour  into 
the  drama.  Itur  in  antiquam  silva/n.  Realism  left  shabby  and  squalid 
things,  alehouse  wit,  and  laid  hold  of  a  sweeter  life.  Reckless, 
good-natured  scholar,  George  fairly  followed  the  call  which  haunted 
so  many  academic  outcasts,  the  call  which  Marlowe  and  Greene 
and  Dekker  answered  with  those  sweet  songs  of  country  life,  and 
which  led  Peele  to  the  making  of  this  play.  He  wove  romance 
and  realism  into  a  fabric  that  may  well  show  a  coarse  pattern  and 
often  very  clumsy  workmanship,  but,  on  the  whole,  it  is  a  pleasing 
pattern  and  a  new.  Moreover,  it  is  all  made  of  sound  English 
stuff.  The  tales  he  used  for  his  main  drama  were  familiar  to  Eng- 
lish ears;  the  persons  of  his  framework  play  were  kindly  folk  of 
any  English  village,  and  the  air  of  it  all  is  as  fresh  and  wholesome 
as  an  English  summer  morning. 

Sources,  Title,  Text. — The  sources  of  the  play,  so  far  as  one 
may  speak  of  sources,  are  indicated  in  general  above,  and  in  par- 
ticular by  notes  to  the  following  text.  The  plural  form  of  the  title 
ought  probably  to  be  singular,  in  spite  of  common  usage,  the  gloss 
ealdra  cicena  spel  (Wright,  /^r.),  and  I  Timothy  iv,  7  ;  Mr.  Fleay, 
perhaps  as  a  concession  to  Madge,  prints  Old  ffifes'  Tale  (Biog. 
Chron.  Kng.  Drama,  II.  1 54). J  He  puts  the  date  of  composition 
"clearly  1590,"  on  the  theory  that  Harvey  —  Huanebango — is 

1  It  is  entered  on  the-  Stationers'  Registers  to  Raphe  Hancock,  April  16,  1595,  the  oivldt 
vjijes  talc.  Cf.  "an  olde  wives  tale,"  Greene,  Gruatstc.  (Grosart  XII.  119).  —  Gen.  Ed. 


348  George    Peele 

here  satirized  by  Peele  as  a  consequence  of  Harvey's  attack  upon 
Lyly  in  1589,  —  circulated  then  in  manuscript  though  not  printed 
until  1593.  Lammerhirt  *  argues,  but  not  conclusively,  that  the 
play  was  written  before  1588,  —  partly  because  of  the  allusions  to 
Harvey,  and  partly  because  style  and  form  point  to  an  early  period 
in  the  author's  development.  Until  a  surer  date  can  be  established, 
however,  1590  will  serve  as  the  time  of  composition  for  this  play. 
The  Old  Wives'  Tale,  says  Dyce,  "had  sunk  into  complete  oblivion, 
till  Steevens  .  .  .  communicated  to  Reed  the  account  of  it  which 
appeared  in  the  Biographia  Dramatica"  In  ^783  Steevens  writes 
to  Warton  :  "  All  I  have  learned  in  relation  to  the  original  from 
which  the  idea  of  Milton's  Comus  might  be  borrowed,  I  communi- 
cated to  Mr.  Reed.  .  .  .  Only  a  single  copy  of  his  [«V]  Old 
[fives'  Tale  has  hitherto  appeared,  and  even  that  is  at  present  out  of 
my  reach.  .  .  ."  2  As  to  the  rhythmic  structure,  E.  Penner  notes3 
that  of  964  lines  of  this  play  192  are  five-stress  or  ordinary  heroic 
verse,  7  are  hexameters,  and  100  short  verses.  The  rest  is  prose. 
The  best  edition  is,  of  course,  that  of  Bullen,  in  3  vols.,  i888-[B]; 
but  there  were  excellent  editions  by  Dyce,  one  in  1828  ff.,  and 
another  in  i86i-[Dy.].  The  present  text  of  The  Old  [fives' 
Tale  is  from  the  1595  quarto  in  the  British  Museum;  the  title- 
page  is,  with  the  exception  of  the  vignettes,  a  fair  representation  of 
the  original. 

F.  B.  GUMMERE. 

1  G.  P.    Untersuchungen,  etc.,  Rostock,   1862,  pp.  62  ff. 

2  Biogr.  Mem.  of  the  late  Jos.   Warton,  DD.,  London,  1806,  p.  398. 

3  Mctriscbe  Untersuchungen  <KU    George  Peele,  in   the  Arcbi-v  fur  das  Studium  d.  ntueren 
Spracben,e.lc.   (1890),  LXXXV.  279. 


THE 

Old  Wiues  Tale. 

A  pleafant  conceited  Gome- 
die  played  by  the  Queenes  Ma- 
iefties  players 

Written  by  G.  P. 


VIGNETTE 


Printed  at  London  by  John  Dantcr,  and  are  to 

be  fold  by  Raph  Hancocke,  and  John 

Hardie,   1595. 


[The  Persons  of  the  Play1 

SACRAPANT. 

First  Brother,  named  CALYPHA. 

Second  Brother,  named  THELEA. 

EUMENIDES. 

ERESTUS. 

LAMPRISCUS. 

HuANEBANGO. 

COREBUS. 

WlGGEN. 

Churchwarden. 

Sexton. 

Ghost  of  JACK. 

Friar,  Harvest-men,  Furies,  Fiddlers,  etc. 

DELIA,  sister  to  CALYPHA  and  THELEA. 

VENELIA,  betrothed  to  ERESTUS. 

ZANTIPPA,\^     ht£rs  fg  LAMPRISCUS. 

CELANTA,  ) 

Hostess. 

ANTIC. 

FROLIC. 

FANTASTIC. 

CLUNCH,  a  smith. 

MADGE,  bis  wife.~\ 

1  Not  in  Q.;   inserted  by  Dy.      On  the  history  of  the  characters  see  Appendix  A. 


The  Old  Wives  Tale. 


Enter  ANTICKE,   FROLICKE,   and  FANTASTICKE. 
ANTICKE. 


nowe  fellowe  Franticke,1  what,  all  a  mort  ?  2  Doth 
this  sadnes  become  thy  madnes  ?  What  though  wee 
have  lost  our  way  in  the  woodes,  yet  never  hang  the 
head,  as  though  thou  hadst  no  hope  to  live  till  to  mor- 
row :  for  Fantasticke  and  I  will  warrant  thy  life  to  night  for  twenty  5 
in  the  hundred. 

Frollcke.  Anticke  and  Fantasticke,  as  I  am  frollicke  franion,3  never 
in  all  my  life  was  I  so  dead  slaine.  What  ?  to  loose  our  way  in 
the  woode,  without  either  fire  or  candle  so  uncomfortable  ?  O  cae- 
lum  !  O  terra  !  O  maria  !  O  Neptune  !  4  I  O 

Fantas.  Why  makes  thou  it  so  strange,  seeing  Cupid  hath  led 
our  yong  master  to  the  faire  Lady  and  she  is  the  only  saint  that  he 
hath  sworne  to  serve  ? 

Frollicke.    What  resteth  then  but  wee  commit  him  to  his  wench, 
and  each  of  us  take  his  stand   up  in   a  tree,  and  sing  out  our  ill  15 
fortune  to  the  tune  of  O  man  in  desperation!* 

1  A  mistake  for  Frolic. 

2  Alamort,  mortally  sick  ;  and  then,  dispirited. 

3  "A  gay,  reckless  fellow." 

4  Below  '  Neptune,'  Sig.  A  iii. 

6  B.  refers  to  Kbbsworth,  Roxhurgbe  Ballads,  IV.  365,  468.  Sec  also  Nash,  Four  Letters 
Confuted  ((irosart,  11.  190),  who  says  of  Harvey's  "  barefoote  rimes"  that  "they  would 
have  trowld  off  bravely  to  the  tune  of  0  man  in  desperation,  and,  like  Marenzus  Madrigals, 
the  mourneful  note  naturally  have  affected  the  miserable  Dittie." 

351 


352  The    Old   Jf^ives    Tale 

Ant.  Desperately  spoken,  fellow  Frollicke  in  the  darke  :  but  see- 
ing it  falles  out  thus,  let  us  rehearse  the  old  proverb.1 

Three  merrie  men,  and  three  merrie  men, 

And  three  merrie  men  be  wee.  2O 

/  in  the  wood,  and  thou  on  the  ground, 

And  Jacke  sleepes  in  the  tree. 

Fan.  Hush !  a  dogge  in  the  wood,  or  a  wooden  dogge.2  O 
comfortable  hearing  !  I  had  even  as  live  the  chamberlaine  of  the 
White  Horse  had  called  me  up  to  bed.  25 

Frol.  Eyther  hath  this  trotting  cur  gone  out  of  his  cyrcuit,  or 
els  are  we  nere  some  village,  which  should  not  be  farre  off,  for  I 

Enter  a  SMITH  with  a  lanthorne  £5"  candle. 

perceive  the  glymring  of  a  gloworme,  a  candle,  or  a  cats  eye,  my 
life  for  a  halfe  pennie.  In  the  name  of  my  own  father,  be  thou 
oxe  or  asse  that  appearest,  tell  us  what  thou  art.  30 

Smith.  What  am  I  ?  Why  I  am  Clunch  the  Smith ;  what  are 
you,  what  make  you  in  my  territories  at  this  time  of  the  night  ? 

Ant.  What  doe  we  make,  dost  thou  aske  ?  Why  we  make  faces 
for  feare  :  such  as  if  thy  mortall  eyes  could  behold,  would  make  thee 
water  the  long  seames  of  thy  side  slops,3  Smith.  35 

Frol.  And  in  faith,  sir,  unlesse  your  hospitalitie  doe  releeve  us, 
wee  are  like  to  wander  with  a  sorrowfull  hey  ho,  among  the  owlets, 
&  hobgoblins  of  the  forrest:  good  Vulcan,  for  Cupids  sake  that  hath 
cousned  us  all,  befriend  us  as  thou  maiest,  and  commaund  us  how- 
soever, wheresoever,  whensoever,  in  whatsoever,  for  ever  and  ever.4  40 

1  Chappell  gives  the  song  in   Popular  Music  of  the  Olden   Time,  p.  216.      Three  Merry 
Men  is  quoted  in  Westward  Hoe,  and  in  Barry's  Ram  Alley  (sung  by  Smallshanks  :   see  note, 
Hazlitt-Dodeley,  X.   298),  as  well  as  in  Twelfth  Night;  and  it  is  parodied  by  the  musical 
cook  in  The  Bloody  Brother.      Chappell   is  somewhat  daring  when   he  takes  these  words  from 
the  Old  ffi-ves'   Tale  as  the  original ;   lines  3  and  4  look  like  a  parody. 

2  Dy.  points  out  the  pun  in  '  wooden  '   (  =  mad). 

3  Long  wide  breeches  or  trousers  ;    Dy.      See  Lookin^-Glass  for  London  and  England,  near 
end  :    "This  right  slop  is  my  pantry,  behold  a  manchet  [Draws  it  out~\  "... 

4  A  bit  of  nonsense  like  the  talk  of  Macbeth' s  porter.      The  speech  is  a  sort  of  parody  on 
the  appeal  of  wandering  knights  or  travellers  in  romances,  and  Clunch,  with  his  '  territories,' 
may  take  the  place  of  enchanter,  giant,  or  the  like. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  353 

Smith.  Well,  masters,  it  seemes  to  mee  you  have  lost  your  waie  in 
the  wood:  in  consideration  whereof,  if  you  will  goe  with  Clunch1 
to  his  cottage,  you  shall  have  house  roome,  and  a  good  fire  to  sit 
by,  althogh  we  have  no  bedding  to  put  you  in. 

AIL    O  blessed  Smith,  O  bountifull  Clunch.  45 

Smith.  For  your  further  intertainment,  it  shall  be  as  it  may  be, 
so  and  so. 

Heare  a  dogge  barke. 

Hearke!2this  is  Ball  my  dogge  that  bids  you  all  welcome  in  his 
own  language;  come,  take  heed  for3  stumbling  on  the  threshold. 
Open  dore,  Madge,  take  in  guests.  Enter  old  woman.  50 

'<£/.  Welcome  Clunch  &  good  fellowes  al  that  come  with  my 
good  man  ;  for  my  good  mans  sake  come  on,  sit  downe  ;  here  is  a 
peece  of  cheese  &  a  pudding  of  my  owne  making. 

Anticke.  Thanks,  Gammer ;  a  good  example  for  the  wives  of  our 
towne.  55 

Frolicke.  Gammer,  thou  and  thy  good  man  sit  lovingly  together ; 
we  come  to  chat  and  not  to  eate. 

Smith.    Well,  masters,  if  you  will  eate  nothing,  take  away.    Come, 
what  doo  we  to  passe  away  the  time?     Lay  a  crab4  in  the  fire  to 
rost  for  lambes-wooll.     What,  shall  wee  have  a  game  at  trumpe  or  60 
ruffe5  to  drive  away  the  time,  how  say  you  ? 

Fantasticke.  This  Smith  leads  a  life  as  merrie  as  a  king0  with 
Madge  his  wife.  Syrrha  Frolicke,  I  am  sure  thou  art  not  without 
some  round  or  other;  no  doubt  but  Clunch  can  beare  his  part. 

Frolicke.    Els  thinke  you  mee  ill  brought  up ; 7  so  set  to  it  when  65 
you  will.  They  sing. 

1  This  use  of  the  third  person  is  common  in  dramas  of  the  time.      See  Ward,  Old  English 
Drama,   Select    Plays,  etc.,    Introd. ,   p.   xi.,    notes.       So  in  Greene:    "Which   Brandamart 
(i.e.  I)"  .  .  .  ;    "  For  Sacripant  must  have  Angelica."      It  served  to  identify  the  actor. 

2  They  are  now  supposed  to  be  at  the  cottage.  8  For  fear  of ... 
4  A  crab-apple.     The  pulp  was  mixed  with  ale,  'lamb's  wool.' 

6  Collier  gave  Dycc  the  following  quotation  from  Martin's  Month's  AtinJe  :  "leaving  the 
ancient  game  ot  Kngland  (  Trumpe},  where  every  coate  and  sute  are  sorted  in  their  degree,  are 
running  to  Ruffe,  where  the  greatest  sorte  of  the  sute  carrieth  away  the  game." 

6  The  familiar  motif  of  the  contented  peasant  as  entertainer  of  royalty  or  what  not. 

7  According  to  the  Jests   (  Bullen,  II.    314),  George   Feele  had  no  skill   in  music,   and 
must  have  been  a  conspicuous  exception  ;  witness  the  well-known  statement  of  Chappell,  Popu- 

2    A 


354  T/ie    Old  Waives    Tale 


SONG. 

When  as  the  Rie  reach  to  the  chin, 

And  chopcherrie,1  chopcherrie  ripe  within, 

Strawberries  swimming  in  the  creame, 

And  schoole  boyes  playing  in  the  streame:  JQ 

Then  O,  then  O,  then  O  my  true  love  said, 

Till  that  time  come  againe, 

Shee  could  not  live  a  maid. 

Ant.    This  sport  dooes  well :   but  me  thinkes,  Gammer,  a  merry 
winters  tale  would  drive  away  the  time  trimly.      Come,  I  am  sure  75 
you  are  not  without  a  score. 

Fantast.    I  faith,  Gammer,  a  tale  of  an  howre  long  were  as  good 
as  an  howres  sleepe. 

Frol.    Looke  you,  Gammer,  of  the  Gyant  and  the  Kings  Daughter,2 
and  I  know  not  what.    I  have  scene  the  day  when  I  was  a  little  one,  80 
you  might  have  drawne  mee  a  mile  after  you  with  such  a  discourse. 

Old  woman.    Well,  since  you  be  so   importunate,  my  good  man 
shall  fill  the  pot  and  get  him  to  bed ;  they  that  ply  their  worke  must 
keepe  good  howres.     One  of  you  goe  lye  with  him  ;   he  is  a  cleane 
skind  man,  I  tell  you,  without  either  spavin  or  windgall ;   so  I  am  85 
content  to  drive  away  the  time  with  an  old  wives  winters  tale. 

Fantast.    No  better  hay  in  Devonshire,3  a  my  word,  Gammer, 
lie  be  one  of  your  audience. 

Frolicke.    And  I  another :   thats  flat. 

Anticke.    Then    must    I   to  bed  with   the  good   man.      Bona  nox  go 
Gammer;   God  night,  Frolicke. 

Smith.    Come  on,  my  lad,  thou  shalt  take  thy  unnaturall4  rest 

Exeunt  ANTICKE  and  the  SMITH. 

lar  Music,  p.  98.  The  barber  kept  "  lute  or  cittern  "  in  his  shop  for  the  amusement  of  wait- 
ing customers  ;  and  England  had  been  a  land  of  song  from  Ca-dmon's  time  down.  The  "  man 
in  the  street"  was  expected  to  know  how  to  join  in  a  part  song.  The  rural  song,  such  as 
they  sing  here,  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  dramatists. 

1  Chopcherry  :   "a  game  in  which  one  tries  to  catch  a  suspended  cherry  with  the  teeth; 
bob-cherry."  .  .  .    New  Kngl.  Diet. 

2  A  version  of  Childc  Row/ami?  3  Peele  was  probably  of  a  Devonshire  family. 
4  A  Dogberrian  touch,  evidently  beloved  by  the  pit,  and  a  fine  makeweight  to  those  pom- 
pous experiments  with  word  and  phrase  which  delighted  the  serious  playgoer. 


The    Old   Wives    Tale  355 

Frollicke.  Yet  this  vantage  shall  we  have  of  them  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  bee  ready  at  the  sight  thereof  extempore.1  95 

Old  -worn.  Nowe  this  bargaine,  my  masters,  must  I  make  with  you, 
that  you  will  say  hum  &  ha  to  my  tale,  so  shall  I  know  you  are  awake. 

Both.    Content,  Gammer,  that  will  we  cloo. 

Old  worn.    Once  uppon  a  time  there  was  a  King  or  a  Lord,  or  a 
Duke,  that  had  a  faire  daughter,  the  fairest  that  ever  was;  as  white  100 
as  snowe,  and  as  redd  as  bloud  :   and  once  uppon  a  time  his  daughter 
was  stollen  away,  and  hee  sent  all  his  men  to  seeke  out  his  daughter, 
and  hee  sent  so  long,  that  he  sent  all  his  men  out  of  his  land. 

Frol.    Who  drest  his  dinner  then  ? 

Old  ivoman.    Nay,  either  heare  my  tale,  or  kisse  my  taile.  105 

Fan.    Well  sed,  on  with  your  tale,  Gammer. 

Old  woman.    O  Lord,  I  quite  forgot,  there  was  a  Conjurer,  and 
this  Conjurer  could  doo  any  thing,  and  hee  turned  himselfe  into  a 
great  Dragon,  and  carried  the  Kinges  Daughter  away  in  his  mouth 
to  a  Castle  that  hee  made  of  stone,  and  there  he  kept  hir  I  know  1 10 
not  how  long,  till  at  last  all  the  Kinges  men  went  out  so  long,  that 
hir  two  Brothers  went  to  seeke  hir.2     O,  I  forget :   she  (he  I  would 
say)  turned  a  proper3  yong  man   to  a   Beare  in   the  night,  and  a 
man   in    the  day,  and  keeps4  by  a  crosse  that   parts  three  severall 
waies,  &  he 5  made  his  Lady  run  mad   .   .   .   Gods  me  bones,  who  1 1 5 
comes  here  ?  Eater  the  two  Brothers. 

Frol.    Soft,  Gammer,  here  some  come  to  tell  your  tale  for  you.0 

Fant.    Let  them  alone,  let  us  heare  what  they  will  say. 

i  Brother.    Upon  these  chalkie  cliffs  of  Albion  " 

We  are  arived  now  with  tedious  toile,  120 

And  compassing  the  wide  world  round  about 
To  seeke  our  sister,  to8  seeke  faire  Delya  forth, 
Yet  cannot  we  so  much  as  heare  of  hir. 

1  Below  'extempore,'  Sig.  B. 

2  See  Critical  Essay  for  the  folk-tales  in  question.  8  handsome. 

4  '  he  '  keeps  (frequents,  lives),  i.e.  the  young  man.  Omission  of  subject  is  common  in 
the  ballads.  6  The  conjurer. 

6  See  the  Critical  Essay  for  this  "play  within  the  play." 

"  The  princes,  of  course,  talk  in  metre  when  the  "high  style"  is  needed,  but  in  familiar 
prose  with  Krestus  (  =r  "Senex").  The  repetitions  in  this  blank-verse  are  characteristic. 

8  B.  omits.       L)y.  proposes  to  omit  'faire.'      Neither  omission  is  necessary. 


356  The    Old  Wives    Tale 

2  Brother.    O  fortune  cruell,  cruell  &  unkind, 

Unkind  in  that  we  cannot  find  our  sister;  125 

Our  sister  haples  in  hir  cruell  chance  ! 
Soft,  who  have  we  here? 

x  y 

Enter  SENEX  at  the  Crosse,  stooping  to  gather. 

I  Brother.    Now,  father,  God  be  your  speed, 
What  doo  you  gather  there  ? 

Old  man.    Hips  and  hawes,  and  stickes  and  straws,  and   thinges  130 
that  I  gather  on  the  ground,  my  sonne.1 

1  Brother.    Hips  and  hawes,  and  stickes   and  strawes  !   Why,  is 
that  all  your  foode,  father  ? 

Old  man.    Yea,  sonne. 

2  Brother.    Father,  here  is  an   almes   pennie  for    mee,   and  if  I  135 
speede  in  that  I  goe  for,  I  will  give  thee  as  good  a  gowne  of  gray2 

as  ever  thou  diddest  weare. 

1  Brother.    And,  father,  here  is  another  almes  pennie  for  me,  and 
if  I  speede  in  my  journey,  I  will  give  thee  a  palmers  staffe  of  y  vorie, 
and  a  scallop  shell  of  beaten  gold.3  140 

Old  man.    Was  shee  fayre  ?4 

2  Brother.    I,  the  fairest  for  white,  and  the  purest  for  redd,  as  the 
blood  of  the  deare,  or  the  driven  snow. 

Old  m.    Then  harke  well  and  marke  well,  my  old  spell : 
Be  not  afraid  of  every  stranger,  145 

Start  not  aside  at  every  danger  : 
Things  that  seeme  are  not  the  same, 
Blow  a  blast  at  every  flame  : 
For  when  one  flame  of  fire  goes  out, 

Then  comes  your  wishes  well  about:  150 

If  any  aske  who  told  you  this  good, 
Say  the  White  Beare  of  Englands  wood. 

1  Reminds  one  of  nursery  tales  with  bits  of  rhyme,  — the  cante-fable  of  folk-lore. 

2  So  Milton's  famous  "  grey  hooded  Even,  Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed  "... 

3  Below  'gold,'  Sig.  B  ii. 

*  Dy.  assumes  that  "something  .  .  .  has  dropt  out  "  ;  but  this  is  not  necessary.  Erestus,  who 
says  below  that  he  '  speaks  in  riddles,'  knows  the  errand  of  the  brothers,  and  asks  the  question 
abruptly.  He  plays  the  part  of  Merlin  in  Cbllde  Rowland. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  357 

1  Brother.    Brother,  heard  you  not  what  the  old  man  said  ? 
Be  not  afraid  of  every  stranger, 

Start  not  aside  for  every  danger:  ice 

Things  that  seeme  are  not  the  same, 

Blow  a  blast  at  every  flame  : 

If  any  aske  who  told  you  this  good, 

Say  the  White  Beare  of  Englands  wood.1 

2  Brother.    Well,  if  this  doo  us  any  good,  160 
Wei  fare  the  White  Bear  of  Englands  wood.                      Ex. 

Old  man.    Now  sit  thee  here  &  tel  a  heavy  tale. 
Sad  in  thy  moode,  and  sober  in  thy  cheere, 
Here  sit  thee  now  and  to  thy  selfe  relate, 

The  hard  mishap  of  thy  most  wretched  state.  165 

In  Thessalie  I  liv'd  in  sweete  content, 
Untill  that  Fortune  wrought  my  overthrow  ; 
For  there  I  wedded  was  unto  a  dame, 
That  liv'd  in  honor,  vertue,  love,  and  fame : 
But  Sacrapant,  that  cursed  sorcerer,  170 

Being  besotted  with  my  beauteous  love, 
My  deerest  love,  my  true  betrothed  wife, 
Did  seeke  the  meanes  to  rid  me  of  my  life. 
But  worse  than  this,  he  with  his  chanting2  spels, 
Did  turne  me  straight  unto  an  ugly  Beare;  175 

And  when  the  sunne  doth  settle  in  the  west, 
Then  I  begin  to  don  my  ugly  hide  : 
And  all  the  day  I  sit,  as  now  you  see, 
And  speake  in  riddles  all  inspirde  with  rage, 
Seeming  an  olde  and  miserable  man  :  180 

And  yet  I  am  in  Aprill  of  my  age. 

Enter  VENELIA  his  Lady  mad ;  and  goes  in  againe. 

See  where  Venelya,  my  betrothed  love, 
Runs  madding  all  inrag'd  about  the  woods, 
All  by  his  curssed  and  inchanting  spels. 

1  The  spell  is  important,  solemn,  and  is  therefore  repeated.      No  particular  tale  of  The 
White  Bear  of  England's  Wood  is  known,  but  similar  cases  of  transformation  are  plentiful. 
*  Dy.  prints  '  'chanting  '  ;   needlessly. 


358  The   Old  Wives    Tale 

Enter  LAMPRISCUS  with  a  pot  of  bonny. 

But  here  comes  Lampriscus,  my  discontented  neighbour.      How  185 
now,  neighbour,  you  looke  towarde  the  ground  as  well  as  I ;  you 
muse  on  something. 

Lamp.    Neighbour  on  nothing,  but  on  the  matter  I  so  often  mooved 
to  you  :   if  you  do  any  thing  for  charity,  helpe  me  ;   if  for  neighbor- 
hood or  brotherhood,  helpe  me:   never  was  one  so  combered  as  is  190 
poore  Lampryscus  :   and  to  begin,  I  pray  receive  this  potte  of  honny 
to  mend  *  your  fare. 

Old  man.    Thankes,  neighbor,  set  it  downe ; 
Honny  is  alwaies  welcome  to  the  Beare. 
And  now,  neighbour,  let  me  heere  the  cause  of  your  comming.  195 

Lampriscus.  I  am  (as  you  knowe,  neighbour)  a  man  unmaried, 
and  lived  so  unquietly  with  my  two  wives,  that  I  keepe  every  yeare 
holy  the  day  wherein  I  buried  them  both  :  the  first  was  on  Saint 
Andrewes  day,  the  other  on  Saint  Lukes.2 

Old  man.    And  now,  neighbour,  you  of  this   country  say,  your  20O 
custome  is  out :   but  on  with  your  tale,  neighbour. 

Lamp.  By  my  first  wife,  whose  tongue  wearied  me  alive,  and 
sounded  in  my  eares  like  the  clapper  of  a  great  bell,  whose  talke 
was  a  continuall  torment  to  all  that  dwelt  by  her,  or  lived  nigh  her, 
you  have  heard  me  say  I  had  a  handsome  daughter.  205 

Old  man.    True,  neighbour. 

Larnpr.  Shee  it  is  that  afflictes  me  with  her  continuall  clamoures, 
and  hangs  on  me  like  a  burre:  poore  shee  is,  and  proude  jhee  is;  as 
poore  as  a  sheepe  new  shorne,  and  as  proude  of  her  hopes,  as  a  pea- 
cock of  her  taile  well  growne.  210 

Old  man.  Well  said,  Lampryscus,  you  speake  it  like  an  Eng- 
lishman. 

Larnpr.  As  curst  as  a  waspe,  and  as  frowarde  as  a  childe  new 
taken  from  the  mothers  teate;  shee  is  to  my  age,  as  smoake  to  the 
eyes,  or  as  vinegar  to  the  teeth.  215 

1  Below  '  mend,'  Sly.  B  iii. 

2  B.  notes  that  "  St.  Luke's  Day  ( I  8th  October)  was  the  day  of  Horn  Fair  ;   and  St.  Luke 
was  jocularly  regarded  as  the  patron  saint  of  cuckolds.      St.  Andrew  was  supposed  to  bring  good 
luck  to  lovers."  .  .  . 


The    Old   Waives    Tale  359 

Old  man.    Holily  praised,  neighbour,  as  much  for  the  next. 

Lampr.  By  my  other  wife  I  had  a  daughter,  so  hard  favoured, 
so  foule  and  ill  faced,  that  I  thinke  a  grove  full  of  golden  trees, 
and  the  leaves  of  rubies  and  dyamonds,  would  not  bee  a  dowrie 
annswerable  to  her  deformitie.  22O 

Old  man.  Well,  neighbour,  nowe  you  have  spoke,  heere  me 
speake  ;  send  them  to  the  well  for  the  water  of  life  : *  there  shall 
they  finde  their  fortunes  unlooked  for.  Neighbour,  farewell.  Exit. 

Lampr.  Farewell  and  a  thousand  ; 2  and  now  goeth  poore  Lam- 
pryscus  to  put  in  execution  this  excellent  counsell.  Exeunt.  225 

Fro!.  Why  this  goes  rounde  without  a  fidling  stick.  But  doo 
you  heare,  Gammer,  was  this  the  man  that  was  a  beare  in  the 
night,  and  a  man  in  the  day  ? 

Old  woman.    I,  this  is  hee ;  and  this  man  that  came  to  him  was  a 
beggar,  and  dwelt  uppon  a  greene.      But  soft,  who  comes  here  ?    O  230 
these  are  the  harvest  men  ;  ten  to  one  they  sing  a  song  of  mowing. 

Enter  the  harvest  men  a  singing,  with  this 
SONG  double  repeated.3 

All  yee  that  lovely  lovers  be,  pray  you   for  me. 

Loe  here  we  come  a  sowing,  a  sowing, 

And  sowe  sweete  fruites  of  love  : 

In  your  sweete  hearts  well   may  it  proove.  Exeunt.  235 

Enter    HUANEBANGO  4  with  bis  two  band  sword,  and  BOOBY  5  the   Clowne. 

Font.    Gammer,  what  is  he  ? 

Old  woman.  O  this  is  one  that  is  going  to  the  Conjurer;  let  him 
alone;  here  what  he  sayes. 

1  The  reference  is  to  the  tale  preserved  in  several  versions,  and  known  as  "The  Three 
Heads  of  the  Well,"  Jacobs,    English   Fairy    Tales,  p.    222.      "The  Well  of  the  World's 
End,"  p.  215,  however,  has  the  incident  of  filling  a  sieve. 

2  So  "God  ye  good  night,  .and  twenty,  sir!"     In   Middleton's    Trick    to   Catch  the   Old 
One  —  "A   thousand  farewells."      Compare  the  well-known  forms  of  greeting,  as   "  Griiss' 
mir  mein  Liebchen  zehntausend  mal  !"   or  the  elaborate  message  at  the  opening  of  the  ballad 
Cbilde  Maurice.  3  See  Appendix  B  on  this  Song.  4  See  Appendix  A. 

5  The  'Booby'  is  later  called  '  Corebus '  or  'Chorebus.'  See  Harvey,  The  Trimming  of 
Thomas  Naibe,  Grosart,  III.  29  :  "Thou  mayest  be  cald  the  very  Chortcbus  of  our  time,  of 
whom  the  proverbc  was  sayde,  more  foolc  than  Chorcebus  :  who  was  a  seely  ideot,  but  yet  had 
the  name  of  a  wise  man."  .  . 


360  The    Old  Wives    Tale 

Huan.    Now  by  Mars  and  Mercury,  Jupiter  and  Janus,  Sol  and 
Saturnus,  Venus  and  Vesta,  Pallas  and  Proserpina,  and  by  the  honor  240 
of  my  house  Polimackeroeplacydus,1  it  is  a  wonder  to  see  what  this 
love  will  make  silly  fellowes  adventure,  even  in  the  wane  of  their 
wits  and  infansie  of  their  discretion.      Alas,  my  friend,  what  fortune 
calles  thee  foorth  to  seeke  thy  fortune  among  brasen  gates,  inchanted 
towers,  fire  and  brimstone,  thunder  and  lightning  ?      Beautie,  I  tell  245 
thee,  is  peerelesse,  and  she  precious  whom  thou  affectest :  do  oft" these 
desires,  good  countriman,  good  friend,  runne  away  from  thy  selfe,  and 
so  soone  as  thou   canst,  forget  her ;  whom  none  must  inherit  but 
he  that  can   monsters  tame,  laboures  atchive,  riddles  absolve,  loose 
inchantments,  murther  magicke,  and  kill  conjuring  :   and  that  is  the  250 
great  and  mighty  Huanebango. 

Booby.    Harke  you  sir,  harke  you.      First  know  I  have  here  the 
flurting  feather,  and  have  given  the  parish  the  start  for  the  long 
stocke.2     Nowe  sir,  if  it  bee  no  more  but  running  through  a  little 
lightning  and  thunder,  and  riddle   me,  riddle  me,  what's  this,3  He  255 
have  the  wench  from  the  Conjurer  if  he  were  ten  Conjurers. 

Huan.  I  have  abandoned  the  court  and  honourable  company,  to 
doo  my  devoyre  against  this  sore  sorcerer  and  mighty  magitian  :  if 
this  Ladie  be  so  faire  as  she  is  said  to  bee,  she  is  mine,  she  is  mine. 
Meus,  mea,  meum,  in  contemptum  omnium  grammaticorum.  260 

Booby.  O  fa/sum  Latinum  !  the  faire  maide  is  nrinum,  cum  apur- 
tinantibus  gibletes  and  all. 

Huan.  If  shee  bee  mine,  as  I  assure  my  selfe  the  heavens  will 
doo  somewhat  to  reward  my  worthines,  shee  shall  bee  allied  to 
none  of  the  meanest  gods,  but  bee  invested  in  the  most  famous  265 

1  Mr.  Fleay  thinks  this  is  a  pun  upon  that  eternal  theme  of  satire  for  Harvey's  enemii  s,  the 
rope-maker's  trade  of  his  father.  "The  names,"  Mr.  Fleay  says,  "  for  the  stock  of  Huane- 
bango are  adapted  from  Plautus,  Polymachreroplacidus  (from  Psetuiulus},  Pyrgopolinices  (from 
Alilcs  doriosus},  in  shapes  which  inevitably  suggest  English  puns  indicating  Harvey's  rope- 
making  extraction,  Polly-make-a--rope-lass,  and  Perg-up-a-line-O.  ..."  Mr.  Fleay  is  bold. 

-  A  difficult  passage.  Dy.  thinks  the  stock  is  a  sword, — Corebus  "has  run  away  from 
the  Parish,  and  become  a  sort  of  knight-errant."  Dr.  Nicholson  :  "  He  has  started  and  they 
may  catch  "  (if  they  can)  and  as  a  vagabond  put  him  in  the  stocks.  B.  makes  the  clown  plume 
himself  on  his  finery.  He  points  with  pride  to  his  feather  ;  and  he  is  equally  proud  of  his 
fashionable  "long  stock"  (i.e.  the  stocking  fastened  high  above  the  knee).  This  gives  bet- 
ter sense  than  the  second  explanation  ;  Corebus  asserts  a  sort  of  equality  with  Huanebango. 

8  The  successful  guessing  of  riddles  wins  a  bride,  fortune,  liberty,  what  not,  in  many  a  folk- 
tale. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  361 

stocke  of  Huanebango  Polimackeroeplacidus,  my  grandfather,  my 
father  Pergopolyneo,  my  mother  Dyonora  de  Sardynya,  famouslie 
descended. 

Booby.  Doo  you  heare,  sir,  had  not  you  a  cosen,  that  was  called 
Gustecerydis  ?  270 

Huan.  Indeede  I  had  a  cosen,  that  sometime  followed  the 
court  infortunately,  and  his  name  Bustegustecerydis. 

Booby.  O  Lord  I  know  him  well;  hee  is  the1  knight  of  trie 
neates  feete. 

Huan.    O  he  lov'd  no  capon  better.     He  hath  oftentimes  deceived  275 
his  boy  of  his  dinner ;  that  was  his  fault,  good  Bustegustecerydis. 

Booby.  Come,  shall  we  goe  along  ? 2  Soft,  here  is  an  olde  man  at 
the  Crosse ;  let  us  aske  him  the  way  thither.  Ho,  you  Gaffer,  I 
pray  you  tell  where  the  wise  man  the  Conjurer  dwells. 

Huan.    Where   that   earthly   Goddesse   keepeth    hir    abode,    the  280 
commander  of  my  thougts,  and  faire  Mistres  of  my  heart. 

Old  man.  Faire  inough,  and  farre  inough  from  thy  fingering, 
sonne. 

Huan.  I  will  followe  my  fortune  after  mine  owne  fancie,  and 
doo  according  to  mine  owne  discretion.  285 

Old  man.    Yet  give  some  thing  to  an  old  man  before  you  goe. 

Huan.  Father,  mee  thinkes  a  peece  of  this  cake  might  serve 
your  turne. 

Old  man.    Yea,  sonne. 

Huan.    Huanebango  giveth  no  cakes  for  almes ;   aske  of  them  290 
that  give  giftes  for  poore  beggars.     Faire  Lady,  if  thou  wert  once 
shrined  in  this  bosome,  I  would  buckler  thee  hara-tantara.          Exit. 

Booby.  Father,  doo  you  see  this  man  ?  You  litle  thinke  heele  run 
a  mile  or  two  for  such  a  cake,  or  passe  for3  a  pudding.  I  tell  you, 
Father,  hee  has  kept  such  a  begging  of  mee  for  a  peece  of  this  cake  !  295 
Whoo,  he  comes  uppon  me  with  a  superfantiall  substance,  and  the 
fovson  4  of  the  earth,  that  I  know  not  what  he  meanes.  Iff  hee  came 
to  me  thus,  and  said, '  my  friend  Booby,'  or  so,  why  I  could  spare  him 
a  peece  with  all  my  heart ;  but  when  he  tells  me  how  God  hath 
enriched  mee  above  other  fellowes  with  a  cake,  why  hee  makes  300 

1  Below  '  the,'  Sig.  C.  2  Enter  Erestut.  8  care  for. 

4  plenty.      Corebus  quotes  the  stilted  talk  of  Huanebango. 


362  The    Old   Wives    Tale 

me  blinde  and  deafe  at  once.     Yet,  father,  heere  is  a  peece  of  cake 
for  you,1  as  harde  as  the  world  goes.2 

Old  man.    Thanks,  sonne,  but  list  to  mee  : 
He  shall  be  deafe  when  thou  shalt  not  see. 

Farewell,  my  sonne ;  things  may  so  hit,  005 

Thou  maist  have  wealth  to  mend  thy  wit. 

Booby,    Farewell,  father,  farewell ;   for  I  must  make  hast  after  my 
two-hand  sword  that  is  gone  before.  Exeunt  omnes. 

Enter  SACRAPANT  in  bis  studic. 

Sacrapant.    The  day  is  cleare,  the  welkin  bright  and  gray, 
The  larke  is  merrie,  and  records3  hir  notes;  310 

Each  thing  rejoyseth  underneath  the  skie, 
But  onely  I  whom  heaven  hath  in  hate, 
Wretched  and  miserable  Sacrapant. 
In  Thessalie  was  I  borne  and  brought  up.4 

My  mother  Meroe  hight,  a  famous  witch,  315 

And  by  hir  cunning  I  of  hir  did  learne, 
To  change  and  alter  shapes  of  mortall  men. 
There  did  I  turne  my  selfe  into  a  dragon, 
And  stole  away  the  daughter  to  the  king, 

Faire  Delya,  the  mistres  of  my  heart,  020 

And  brought  hir  hither  to  revive  the  man 
That  seemeth  yong  and  pleasant  to  behold, 
And  yet  is  aged,  crooked,  weake  and  numbe. 
Thus  by  inchaunting  spells  I  doo  deceive 

Those  that  behold  and  looke  upon  my  face;  325 

But  well  may  I  bid  youthfull  yeares  adue. 

Enter  DELYA  with  a  pot  in  hir  hand. 

See  where  she  corns  from  whence  my  sorrows  grow. 
How  now,  faire  Delya,  where  have  you  bin  ? 

Delya.    At  the  footc  of  the  rocke  for  running  water,  and  gather- 
ing rootcs  for  your  dinner,  sir.  330 

1  This  gift  of  the  cake  reminds  one  of  a  similar  motif  in  the  tale  of  The  Red  Ettin,  Jacobs, 

P-   '35- 

2  though  times  are  hard.  *  sings.  4  Below  '  up,'  Sig.   C  ii. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  363 

Sacr.  Ah,  Delya,  fairer  art  thou  than  the  running  water,  yet 
harder  farre  than  steele  or  adamant. 

Delya.    Will  it  please  you  to  sit  downe,  sir  ? 

Sacr.  I,  Delya,  sit  &  aske  me  what  thou  wilt ;  thou  shalt  have  it 
brought  into  thy  lappe. 

Delya.  Then  I  pray  you,  sir,  let  mee  have  the  best  meate  from 
the  king  of  Englands  table,  and  the  best  wine  in  all  France,  brought 
in  by  the  veriest  knave  in  all  Spaine.1 

Sacr.    Delya,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  so  pleasant. 

Well,  sit  thee  downe.  340 

Spred,  table,  spred ;  meat,  drinke  &  bred ; 
Ever  may  I  have  what  I  ever  crave, 
When  I  am  spred,  for2  meate  for  my  black  cock, 
And  meate  for  my  red. 

Enter  a  FRIER  with  a  chine  of  beefi  and  a  pot  of  wine. 

Sacr.    Heere,  Delya,  will  yee  fall  to  ? 

Del.    Is  this  the  best  meate  in  England  ? 

Sacr.    Yea. 

Del.    What  is  it  ? 

Sacr.    A  chine  of  English  beefe,  meate  for  a  king 
And  a  king's  followers. 

Del.    Is  this  the  best  wine  in  France  ? 

Sacr.    Yea. 

Del.    What  wine  is  it  ? 

Sacr.    A  cup  of  neate  wine  of  Orleance, 
That  never  came  neer  the  brewers  in  England.3 

Del.    Is  this  the  veriest  knave  in  all  Spaine? 

Sacr.    Yea. 


1  These  tricks  of  magic  are  the  staple  of  tales  and  chapbooks  about  conjurers,  and  make  a 
braver  showing  in  plays  like  Doctor  Faustus  and  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay.      Sec  the  latter 
play  in  this  volume,  and  Mr.  Ward's  introduction  to  his  edition  of  the  two  dramas. 

2  Later  editions  omit.      The   formula   is  less  uncanny  than  usual  ;   but  the  two  cocks  have 
grim  associations.       The  dark-red  cock  of  Scandinavian    myth  belonged  to  the  underworld. 
See  The  Wife  of  Usher' i  Well,  and  R.   Kiihler  in  the  Gcrmania,  XI.  85  ff. 

8  The  local  hits  are  to  be  noted  :  praise  for  roast  beef  of  England,  wine  of  France,  and 
girding  at  Spain,  at  brewers,  — one  thinks  of  Falstaff's  complaint  about  the  lime  in  his  sack,  — 
friars,  and  usurers. 


364  The    Old  tf^ives    Tale 

Del.    What,  is  he  a  fryer  ? 

Sacr.    Yea,  a  frier  indefinit,  &  a  knave  infinit. 

Del.    Then  I  pray  ye,  sir  Frier,  tell  me  before  you  goe,  which  is  360 
the  most  greediest  Englishman  ? 

Fryer.    The  miserable  and  most  covetous  usurer. 

Sacr.    Holde  thee  there,  Friar.  Exit  Friar. 

But  soft,  who  have  we  heere  ?      Delia,  away,  begon.1 

Enter  the  two  Brothers. 

Delya,  away,  for  beset  are  we ;  365 

But  heaven  or  hell  shall  rescue  her  for  me.2 

7.  Br.    Brother,  was  not  that  Delya  did  appeare  ? 
Or  was  it  but  her  shadow  that  was  here  ? 

2.  Bro.    Sister,  where  art  thou  ?      Delya,  come  again  ; 
He  calles,  that  of  thy  absence  doth  complaine.  370 

Call  out,  Calypha,  that  she  may  heare, 
And  crie  aloud,  for  Delya  is  neere. 

Eccho.    Neere.3 

1.  Br.    Neere  ?    O  where,  hast  thou  any  tidings  ? 

Eccho.    Tidings.  375 

2.  Br.    Which  way  is  Delya  then,  —  or  that,  or  this  ? 
Eccho.    This. 

7.  Br.    And  may  we  safely  come  where  Delia  is  ? 

Eccho.    Yes. 

2.  Bro.    Brother,  remember  you  the  white  380 

Beare  of  Englands  wood  : 
Start  not  aside  for  every  danger ; 
Be  not  afeard  of  every  stranger ; 
Things  that  seeme,  are  not  the  same. 

7.  Br.    Brother,  why  do  we  not  thew  coragiously  enter  ?  385 

2.  Br.    Then,  brother,  draw  thy  sword  &  follow  me. 

Enter  the  Conjurer;   it  lightens  £3  thunders ;   the  2.  Brother  falls  downe. 

I.  Br.    What,  brother,  doost  thou  fall  ? 
Sacr.    I,  and  thou  to,  Calypha. 

1  Below  'begon,'  Sig.  C  iii.       '*  B.  prints  :   '  heaven  [n]or  hell  shall  rescue  her  from  me.' 
3  Did  this  Echo  suggest  the  song  in  Comus  ? 


The    Old  ff^ives    Tale  365 

Fall  I.  Brother.      Enter  two  Furies. 

Adeste  D<rmones :   away  with  them; 

Go  cary  them  straight  to  Sacrapantos  cell,  390 

There  in  clespaire  and  torture  for  to  dwell. 
These  are  Thenores  sonnes  of  Thessaly, 
That  come  to  seeke  Delya  their  sister  forth  ; 
But  with  a  potion,  I  to  her  have  given, 
My  arts  hath  made  her  to  forget  her  selfe.  395 

He  remooves  a  turfe,  and  shelves  a  light  in  a  glasse. ! 
See  heere  the  thing  which  doth  prolong  my  life; 
With  this  inchantment  I  do  any  thing. 
And  till  this  fade,  my  skill  shall  still  endure, 
And  never  none  shall  breake  this  little  glasse, 

But  she  that's  neither  wife,  widow,  nor  maide.  400 

Then  cheere  thy  selfe ;    this  is  thy  destinie, 
Never  to  die,  but  by  a  dead  mans  hand.  Exeunt. 

Enter  EUMENIDES  the  -wandering  knight,  and  the  Old  Man 2  at  the  Crosse. 

Eum.    Tell  me,  Time,  tell  me,  just  Time, 
When  shall  I  Delia  see  ? 

When  shall  I  see  the  loadstar  of  my  life  ?  405 

When  shall  my  wandring  course  end  with  her  sight, 
Or  I  but  view  my  hope,  my  hearts  delight ! 

Father,  God  speede;  if  you  tell  fortunes,  I  pray,  good  father,  tell  me 
mine. 

Old  man.    Sonne,  I  do  see  in  thy  face,  410 

Thy  blessed  fortune  worke  apace ; 
I  do  perceive  that  thou  hast  wit, 
Beg  of  thy  fate  to  governe  it ; 
For  wisdome  govern'd  by  advise 

Makes  many  fortunate  and  wise.  415 

Bestowe  thy  almes,  give  more  than  all, 
Till  dead  men's  bones  come  at  thy  call. 
Farewell,  my  sonne,  dreame  of  no  rest, 
Til  thou  repent  that  thou  didst  best.  Exit  Old  M. 

1  The  "Life-Index,"  so  called,  of  popular   tales,  connected  with  the  equally  popular  motif 
of  the  "Thankful  Dead."  *  Erestus. 


366  The   Old  ff^ives    Tale 

Eum.    This  man  hath  left  me  in  a  laborinth:  420 

He  biddeth  me  give  more  than  all, 
Till  dead  mens  bones  come  at  thy  call : 
He  biddeth  me  dreame  of  no  rest, 
Till  I  repent  that  I  do  best. 

Enter  WIGGEN,  CoROBUs,1  CHURCHWARDEN  and  SEXTEN. 

JViggen.    You  may  be  ashamed,  you  whorson  scald  Sexton   and  425 
Churchwarden,  if  you  had  any  shame  in  those  shamelesse  faces  of 
yours,  to  let  a  poore  man   lie  so  long  above  ground  unburied.      A 
rot  on  you  all,  that  have  no  more  compassion  of  a  good   fellow 
when   he  is  gone. 

Simon.    What,  would  you  have  us  to  burie  him,  and  to  aunswere  430 
it  our  selves  to  the  parrishe  ? 

Sexton.  Parish  me  no  parishes  ;  pay  me  my  fees,  and  let  the  rest 
runne  on  in  the  quarters  accounts,  and  put  it  downe  for  one  of  your 
good  deedes  a  Gods  name ;  for  I  am  not  one  that  curiously  stands 
upon  merits.  435 

Corobus.  You  whoreson,  sodden-headed  sheepes-face,  shall  a  good 
fellow  do  lesse  service  and  more  honestie  to  the  parish,  &  will  you 
not,  when  he  is  dead,  let  him  have  Christmas2  buriall  ? 

Wiggen.    Peace  Corebus,  as  sure  3  as  Jack  was  Jack,  the  frollickst 
frannion  4  amongst  you,  and  I  Wiggen  his  sweete  sworne  brother,5  440 
Jack  shall  have  his  funerals,  or  some  of  them  shall  lie  on  Gods  deare 
earth  for  it,  thats  once.6 

Churchwa.  Wiggen,  I  hope  thou  wilt  do  no  more  then  thou 
darst  aunswer. 

Wig.    Sir,  sir,  dare  or  dare  not,  more  or  lesse,  aunswer  or  not  445 
aunswer,  do  this,  or  have  this. 

Sex.  Helpe,  helpe,  helpe  ! 7  Wiggen  sets  upon  the  parish  with  a 
pike  staffe. 

1  Misprint  for  '  Corebus.'        2  Dogberry's  distortion  of  words  is  about  as  old  as  English  comedy. 
8  Q.  assure.  *  As  above  :  — a  gay,  reckless  fellow. 

5  According   to   Sir  Walter  Scott  "the  very  latest  allusion  to  the  institution  of  brotherhood 
in  arms  "  is  in  the  ballad  of  Bc-wick  and  Grabame,  "  sworn  brethren  "  as  they  are,  each  "  faith 
and  troth  "  to  the  other. 

6  That's  settled  once  for  all.  —  Bullen. 

7  Recent  editions  make  the  Sexton's  speech  end  here,  and  put  the  rest  in  the  stage  directions. 


The    Old  Waives    Tale  367 


EUMENIDES  awakes  and  coma  to  them, 

Eutri.    Hould  thy  hands,  good  fellow. 

Core.    Can  you  blame  him,  sir,  if  he  take  Jacks  part  against  this  450 
shake-rotten  parish  that  will  not  burie  Jack. 

Rum,    Why,  what  was  that  Jack  ? 

Corel.    Who  Jack,  sir,  who  our  Jack,  sir  ?   as  good  a  fellow  as 
ever  troade  uppon  neats  leather. 

JViggen.    Looke   you,   sir,   he    gave    foure   score    and    nineteene  455 
mourning  gownes  to  the  parish  when  he  died,  and  because  he  would 
not  make  them  up  a  full  hundred,  they  would  not  bury  him ;   was 
not  this  good  dealing  ? 

Churchwar.  Oh  Lord,  sir,  how  he  lies  ;  he  was  not  worth  a  halfe- 
penny,  and  drunke  out  every  penny  :  and  nowe  his  fellowes,  his  460 
drunken  companions,  would  have  us  to  burie  him  at  the1  charge  of 
the  parish.  And  we  make  many  such  matches,  we  may  pull  downe 
the  steeple,  sell  the  belles,  and  thatche  the  chauncell.  He  shall  lie 
above  ground  till  he  daunce  a  galliard  about  the  churchyard  for 
Steeven  Loache.  465 

IViggen.  Sic  argumentaris,  donnne  Loache ;  —  and  we  make  many 
such  matches,  we  may  pull  downe  the  steeple,  sell  the  belles,  and 
thatche  the  chauncell :  in  good  time,  sir,  and  hang  your  selves  in 
the  bell  ropes  when  you  have  done.  Domine  oponens,  prtspono  tibi  bane 
questtonem,  whether  you  will  have  the  ground  broken,  or  your  pates  470 
broken  first  ?  For  one  of  them  shall  be  done  presently,  and  to  begin 
mine2  He  scale  it  upon  your  cockescome. 

Bum.    Hould  thy   hands,  I  pray  thee,  good  fellow ;   be   not   too 
hastie. 

Coreb.    You  capons   face,  we  shall   have   you   turnd   out  of  the  475 
parish  one  of  these  dayes,  with  never  a  tatter  to  your  arse  ;    then  you 
are  in  worse  taking  then  Jack. 

Eumen.    Faith  and  he  is  bad  enough.    This  fellow  does  but  the  part 
of  a  friend,  to  seeke  to  burie  his  friend  ;   how  much  will  burie  him  ? 

JFiggen.    Faith,  about    some    fifteene   or    sixteene   shillings    will  480 
bestow  him  honestly. 

1  Below  'the,'  Sig.   D. 

2  Open  the  argument  from  my  side  (with  the  aid  of  the  pike-Staff).  —  Bullen. 


368  The    Old  Wives    Tale 

Sexton.    I,  even  there  abouts,  sir. 

Eumen.    Heere,  hould  it  then,  and  I  have  left  me  but  one  poore 
three  halfe   pence  ;   now  do  I   remember  the  wordes  the  old   man 
spake  at  the  crosse  :   'bestowe  all  thou  hast,'  —  and  this  is  all,  —  'till  485 
dead  mens  bones  comes  at  thy  call.'    Heare,  holde  it,1  and  so  farewell. 

fPig.  God,  and  all  good,  bee  with  you  sir  ;  naie,  you  cormorants, 
He  bestowe  one  peale  of2  Jack  at  mine  owne  proper  costs  and 
charges. 

Coreb.    You   may   thanke   God   the   long  staffe  and   the  bilbowe  490 
blade  crost  not  your  cockescombe.    Well,  weele  to  the  church  stile,4 
and  have  a  pot,  and  so  tryll  lyll. 

Both.    Come,  lets  go.  Exeunt. 

Fant.  But  harke  you,  gammer,  me  thinkes  this  Jack  bore  a  great 
sway  in  the  parish.  495 

Old  woman.  O  this  Jack  was  a  marvelous  fellow  ;  he  was  but  a 
poore  man,  but  very  well  beloved  :  you  shall  see  anon  what  this 
Jack  will  come  to. 

Enter  the  harvest  men  singing,  with  women  in  their  hands. 

Frol.    Soft,  who  have  wee  heere  ?   our  amorous  harvest  starres.3 

Fant.    I,  I,  let  us  sit  still  and  let  them  alone.  500 

Heere  they  begin  to  sing,  the  song 


Soe  heere  we  come  a  reaping,  a  reaping, 

To  reape  our  harvest  fruite, 

And  thus  we  passe  the  yeare  so  long, 

And  never  be  we  mute.  Exit  the  harvest  men.5 

Enter  HUANEBANGO  and  COREBUS  the  clowned 

Frol.    Soft,  who  have  we  here  ?  505 

Old  w.    O  this  is  a  cholerick  gentleman  ;  all  you  that  love  your 

lives,  keepe  out  of  the  smell  of  his  two-hand  sworde  :   nowe  goes  he 

to  the  conjurer. 

1  Recent  eds.  [Gives  money"].  4  See  Appendix  B. 

2  on.  5  Below  '  men,'  Sig.  I)  ii. 

3  harvesters.  °  B.  points  out  that  Corebus  enters  a  moment  later. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  369 

Font.  Me  thinkes  the  Conjurer  should  put  the  foole  into  a 
jugling  boxe.  510 

HIKIH.    Fee,  fa,  fum,1  here  is  the  Englishman, 
Conquer  him  that  can,  came  for  his  lady  bright, 
To  proove  himselfe  a  knight, 
And  win  her  love  in  fight. 

Cor.    Who-hawe,  maister  Bango,  are  you   here  ?   heare  you,  you  5 1 5 
had  best  sit  downe  heere,  and  beg  an  almes  with  me. 

Huan.  Hence,  base  cullion,  heere  is  he  that  commaundeth  in- 
gresse  and  egresse  with  his  weapon,  and  will  enter  at  his  voluntary, 
whosover  saith  no. 

A  voice  and  flame  of  fire :  HUANEBANGO/^//^/^  downe. 

Voice.    No.  520 

Old  iv.    So  with  that,  they  kist,  and  spoiled  the  edge  of  as  good 

a  two  hand  sword,  as  ever  God  put  life  in  ;   now  goes  Corebus  in, 

spight  of  the  conjurer. 

Enter  the  Conjurer,  &  strike  COREBUS  blinded 

Sacr.    Away  with  him  into  the  open  fields, 

To  be  a  ravening  pray  to  crowes  and  kites  :  3  525 

And  for  this  villain,  let  him  wander  up  &  downe 
In  nought  but  darkenes  and  eternall  night.4 

Cor.    Heer  hast  thou  slain  Huan,  a  slashing  knight, 
And  robbed  poore  Corebus  of  his  sight.  Exit. 

Sacr.    Hence,  villaine,  hence.  530 

Now  I  have  unto  Delya  given  a  potion  of  forgetfulnes, 
That  when  shee  comes,  shee  shall  not  know  hir  brothers. 
Lo  where  they  labour,  like  to  country  slaves, 
With  spade  and  mattocke  on  this  inchaunted  ground! 

1  "The  '  fee-fi-fo-fum  '  formula  is  common  to  all  English  stories  of  giants  and  ogres;  it 
also  occurs  in  Peele's  play  and  in  King  Lear.  .  .  .  Messrs.  Jones  and  Kroff  have  some 
remarks  on  it  in  their  'Magyar  Tales,'  pp.  34.0-341  ;  so  has  Mr.  Lang  in  his  '  Fcrrault,' 
p.  Ixiii,  where  he  traces  it  to  the  furies  in  yKschylus"  EumeniJes."  — Jacobs,  En^.  Fairy 
Ta/rs,  f>.  243. 

"  Recent  eds.  —  Enter  Sacrapant  the  Conjurer  and  Two  Furies. 

3  Recent  eds.  —  Huanebango  is  carried  out  by  the  Two  Furies. 

*  Recent  eds.  —  Strikes  Corebus  blind. 


37°  The    Old  If^ives    Tale 

Now  will  I  call  hir  by  another  name,  c-jr 

For  never  shall  she  know  hir  selfe  againe, 

Untill  that  Sacrapant  hath  breathd  his  last. 

See  where  she  comes.  Enter  Delya. 

Come  hither,  Delya,  take  this  gode.1 

Here,  hard  2  at  hand,  two  slaves  do  worke  and  dig  for  gold  j  540 

Gore  them  with  this  &  thou  shalt  have  inough. 

He  gives  hir  a  gode. 

Del.    Good  sir,  I  know  not  what  you  meane. 

Sacra.    She  hath  forgotten  to  be  Delya, 
But  not  forgot  the  same3  she  should  forget : 

But  I  will  change  hir  name.  545 

Faire  Berecynthia,  so  this  country  calls  you, 
Goe  ply  these  strangers,  wench,  they  dig  for  gold.       Exit  Sacrapant. 

Delya.    O  heavens  !   how  am  I  beholding  to  4  this  faire  yong  man. 
But  I  must  ply  these  strangers  to  their  worke. 
See  where  they  come.  550 

Enter  the  two  Brothers  in  their  shirts,  with  spades,  digging. 

1.  Brother.    O  Brother,  see  where  Delya  is  ! 

2.  Brother.    O  Delya,  happy  are  we  to  see  thee  here. 
Delya.    What  tell  you  mee  of  Delya,  prating  swaines  ? 

I  know  no  Delya  nor  know  I  what  you  meane ; 

Ply  you  your  work,  or  else  you  are  like  to  smart.  555 

/.  Brother.    Why,  Delya,  knowst  thou  not  thy  brothers  here  ? 
We  come  from  Thessalie  to  seeke  thee  forth, 
And  thou  deceivest  thy  selfe,  for  thou  art  Delya. 

Delya.    Yet  more  of  Delya  ?   then  take  this  and  smart : 
What,  faine  you  shifts  for  to  defer  your  labor  ?  560 

Worke,  villaines,  worke,  it  is  for  gold  you  digg. 

1  goad. 

2  In  this  and  like  cases  the  editors  restore  a  tolerable  metre  by  different  printing.      Thus 
'  Here  hard  '  may  be  taken  as  part  of  the  preceding  line. 

8  Dr.  Nicholson  would  read  '  name  '  to  no  advantage.  Sacrapant  says  she  has  forgotten  her 
name,  but  has  not  forgotten  as  much  as  she  ought  to  forget.  The  phrase  is  awkward,  but  is 
perhaps  more  "  intelligible  "  than  Mr.  Bullen  allows. 

*  Below  'to,'  Sig.  D  iii. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  371 

2.  Br.    Peace,  brother,  peace,  this  vild  inchanter 
Hath  ravisht  Delya  of  hir  sences  cleane, 
And  she  forgets  that  she  is  Delya. 

/.  Br.    Leave,  cruell  thou,  to  hurt  the  miserable;  565 

Digg,  brother,  digg,  for  she  is  hard  as  steele. 

Here  they  dig  £3"  descry  the  light  under  a  little  biu. 

2-  Br.    Stay,  brother,  what  hast  thou  descride  ? 

Del.    Away  &  touch  it  not ;  it  is  some  thing  that  my  lord  hath 

hidden  there.  She  coven  it  agen. 

Enter  SACRAPANT. 

Sacr.    Well  sed,1  thou  plyest  these  pyoners  well.     Goe,  get  you  570 

in,  you  labouring  slaves. 
Come,  Berecynthia,  let  us  in  likewise, 
And  heare  the  nightingale  record  hir  notes.  Exeunt  omnes. 

Enter  ZANTYPPA,  the  curst  daughter,  to  the  Well?  with  a  pot  in  hir  hand. 

Zant.  Now  for  a  husband,  house  and  home;  God  send  a  good 
one  or  none,  I  pray  God.  My  father  hath  sent  me  to  the  well  for 
the  water  of  life,  and  tells  mee,  if  I  give  faire  wordes,  I  shall  have 
a  husband. 

Enter  the  fowle  wench  to  the  Well  for  water,  with  a  pot  in  hir  hand. 

But  heere  comes  Celanta,  my  sweete  sister;   He  stand  by  and  heare 
what  she  saies. 

Celant.    My  father  hath  sent  mee  to  the  well  for  water,  and   he  580 
tells  me  if  I  speake  faire,  I  shall  have  a  husband,  and  none  of  the 
worst.     Well,  though  I  am  blacke,3  I  am  sure  all  the  world  will  not 
forsake  mee ;  and  as  the  olde  proverbe  is,  though  I  am  blacke,  I  am 
not  the  divell. 

1  Dy.  prints  «  Well  done  ! ' 

2  To  the  popular  tale,  here  plainly  drawn  upon,  Peele  has  added  an  amusing  feature  which 
seems  to  be  his  own  invention.      He  provides  the  deaf  Huanebango  with  a  scolding  wife,  while 
the  blind  Corebus  takes  her  ugly  sister. 

8  As  much  as  "uncomely,"  "ugly,"  as  shown  by  the  countless  passages  in  Elizabethan 
literature,  and  the  connotation  of  the  opposite,  "fair."  Dyce  quotes  the  same  phrase, — 
"though  I  am  blacke,  I  am  not  the  Divell  ..."  from  Greene's  Qtip  for  an  Upstart 
Courtier. 


37 2  The    Old  Waives    Tale 

"Zant.    Marrie    gup   with    a    murren,    I    knowe   wherefore    thou  585 
speakest  that ;  but  goe  thy  waies  home  as  wise  as  thou  camst,  or 
lie  set  thee  home  with  a  wanion. 

Here  she  strikes  bir  pitcher  against  bir  sisters,  and  breakes  them  both  r,nd 

goes  bir  way. 

Celant.    I  thinke  this  be  the  curstest  queane  in  the  world.    You  see 
what  she  is,  a  little  faire,  but  as  prowd  as  the  divell,  and  the  veriest 
vixen  that  lives  upon  Gods  earth.      Well,  He  let  hir  alone,  and  goe  59° 
home  and  get  another  pitcher,  and  for  all  this  get  me  to  the  well 
for  water.  Exit. 

Enter  two  Furies  out  of  the  Conjurers  cell  and  laies  HUANEBANGO  by  the  We// 

of  Life. 

Enter  ZANTIPPA  with  a  pitcher  to  the  Well. 

T^ant.    Once  againe  for  a  husband,  &  in  faith,  Celanta,  I  have  got 
the  start  of  you.      Belike  husbands  growe  by  the  Well  side.     Now 
my  father  sayes  I  must  rule  my  tongue  :   why,  alas,  what  am  I  then  ?  5^5 
A  woman  without  a  tongue  is  as  a  souldier  without  his  weapon  ; 
but  He  have  my  water  and  be  gon. 

Heere  she  offers  to  dip  her  pitcher  in,  and  a  bead  speakes  in  the  Well. 

Head.    Gently  dip,  but  not  too  deepe,1 
For  feare  you  make  the  golden  birde2  to  weepe, 

Faire  maiden,  white  and  red,  600 

Stroke  me  smoothe,  and  combe  my  head, 
And  thou  shalt  have  some  cockell  bread. 

Zant.    What  is  this,  —  Faire  maiden  white  &  red, 
Combe  me  smooth,  and  stroke  my  head, 

1  In  The  Three  Heads  of  the  Well,  "a  golden  head  came  up  singing  :  — 

"  '  Wash  me  and  comb  me, 
And  lay  me  down  softly. 
And  lay  me  on  a  bank  to  dry, 
That  I  may  look  pretty 
When  somebody  pass.es  by.' 

2  iV.  beard. 


The    Old  ff^ives    Tale  373 

And  them  shah  have  some  cockell  bread.1  605 

Cockell  callst  thou  it,  boy  ?  —  faith,  He  give  you  cockell  bread. 

Sbee  br cakes  bir  pitcher  uppon  bis  beade,  theft  it  thunders  and  lightens,3  and 
HUANEBANGO  rises  up :   HUANEBANGO  is  dcafc  and  cannot  beared 

Huan.    Phylyda  phylerydos,  Pamphylyda  floryda  flortos, 
Dub  dub  a  dub,  bounce  quoth  the  guns,  with  a  sulpherous  huffe 

snufYe.4 
Wakte  with  a  wench,  pretty  peat,  pretty  love  and  my  sweet  prettie  610 

pigsnie; 

Just  by  thy  side  shall  sit  surnamed  great  Huanebango 
Safe  in  my  armes  will  I  keepe  thee,  threat  Mars  or  thunder  Olym- 
pus. 

Zant.    Foe,  what  greasie  groome  have  wee  here?      Hee  looks  as  615 
though  hee  crept  out  of  the  backeside  of  the  Well;  and  speakes  like 
a  drum  perisht  at  the  west  end. 

Huan.    O   that   I  might,  but   I    may  not,  woe   to    my  destenie 

therefore,5 
Kisse   that  I   claspe,  —  but  I  cannot;  tell  mee  my  destenie  where-  620 

fore  ? 
Zant.    Whoope  nowe  I  have  my  dreame,  did  you  never  heare  so 

great  a  wonder  as  this  ? 
Three  blue  beanes  in  a  blue  bladder,  rattle,  bladder,  rattle.6 

1  The  upshot  of  much  investigation  seems  to  be  that  the  phrase  to  have  cockell-bread  means 
to  get  a  lover  or  a  husband. 

2  So  in  Hartmann's  Iiuein,  a  knight  pours  water  from  a  certain  well  upon  a  stone  near  by  ; 
a  terrible  thunderstorm  is  the  immediate  result.      A  similar  act  may  bring  the  milder  rain  for 
one's  crops  (Grimm,  Mytbologie,  p.  494). 

8  Harvey  had  an  indifferent  ear  for  verse,  and  here,  perhaps,  —  since  the  hexameters  follow 
so  hard  upon,  — is  a  neat  way  of  stating  the  fact. 

4  Both  Stanyhurst  and  Harvey  were  favorites  for  this  sort  of  ridicule.  The  hexameters  of 
the  former  are  described  admirably  by  Nash,  and,  of  course,  are  parodied  here.  Huff,  Ruff, 
and  Snuff  were  characters  in  the  play  of  King  Cambyses.  Cf.  too  Harvey  in  "  Green's  Memo- 
riall  or  certain  funerall  sonnets"  (Son.  vi.)  :  — 

"  I  wott  not  what  these  cutting  Huffe-snuffes  meane, 
Of  alehouse  daggers  I  have  little  skill.  ..." 

6  Dy.  points  out  that  this  is  an  actual  line  in  Harvey's  Encomium  Lauri. 
6  Below  'rattle,'  Sig.  E. 


374  TAe    Old  Halves    Tale 

Huan.    He  nowe  set  my  countenance  and  to  hir  in  prose;  it  may  625 
be  this  rim  ram  rujffe1  is  too  rude  an  incounter. 

Let  me,  faire  Ladie,  if  you  be  at  leisure,  revell  with  your  sweetnes, 
and  raile  uppon  that  cowardly  Conjurer,  that  hath  cast  me  or  con- 
gealed mee  rather  into  an  unkinde  sleepe  and  polluted  my  carcasse. 

Zantyppa.    Laugh,  laugh,  Zantyppa,  thou  hast  thy  fortune,  a  foole  630 
and  a  husbande  under  one. 

Huan.    Truely,  sweete   heart,   as   I   seeme,  about  some   twenty 
yeares,  the  very  Aprill  of  mine  age. 
.  Zantyppa.    Why,  what  a  prating  asse  is  this  ? 

Huanebango.    Hir  corall  lippes,  hir  crimson  chinne,  635 

Hir  silver  teeth  so  white  within  : 
Hir  golden  locks,  hir  rowling  eye, 
Hir  pretty  parts,  let  them  goe  by  : 
Hey  ho,  hath  wounded  me, 
That  I  must  die  this  day  to  see.  640 

Za.    By  gogs  bones,  thou  art  a  flouting  knave. 
"  Hir  corall  lippes,  hir  crimson  chinne,"  ka,  "  wilshaw."2 

Huan.  True,  my  owne,  and  my  owne  because  mine,  &  mine  be- 
cause mine,  ha  ha  !  Above  a  thousand  pounds  in  possibilitie,  and 
things  fitting  thy  desire  in  possession.  645 

Zan.  The  sott  thinkes  I  aske  of  his  landes.  Lobb3  be  your 
comfort,  and  cuckold  bee  your  destenie.  Heare  you,  sir  ;  and  if  you 
will  have  us,  you  had  best  say  so  betime. 

Huan.    True,  sweete  heart,  and  will  royallize  thy  progeny  with 

my  petigree.  Exeunt  omnes.  650 

Enter  EUMENIDES  the  tvandring  knight. 

Eu.    Wretched  Eumenides,  still  unfortunate, 
Envied  by  fortune,  and  forlorne  by  fate ; 

1  Used  by  Chaucer  to  describe  the  "  hunting  of  the  letter,"  in  his  day  still  a  normal  rule  of 
verse,  particularly  in  the  north  of  England  (Prologue  to  the  "  Persone's  Tale")  :  — 
"  But  trusteth  wel,  I  am  a  suthern  man, 

I  can  not  geste  rum,  ram,  ruf,  by  letter.  ..." 

Professor  Skeat  (Notes  to  C.   T.,  p.  446)  thinks  Peele  has  Chaucer  in  mind,  and  shows  that 
the  latter  probably  borrowed  the  words  "  from  some  French  source." 

2  '  Ka'  =  quoth  he.  —  '  Wilshaw '  ?      [Qy. :   Will  ich  ha(ve)  ?   Cf.  1.  648.      Gen.  £</.] 

3  Lob's  pound,  as  B.  notes,  was  a  phrase  of  the  day  for  "  the  thraldom  of  the  hen-pecked 
married  man." 


The    Old   Wives    Tale  375 

Here  pine  and  die,  wretched  Eumenides. 

Die  in  the  spring,  the  Aprill  of  my  *  age  ? 

Here  sit  thee  down,  repent  what  thou  hast  don:  655 

I  would  to  God  that  it  were  nere  begon. 

Enter  JACKE.  2 

Jacke.    You  are  well  overtaken,  sir. 

Bum.    Who's  that  ? 

"Jacke.    You  are  heartily  well  met,  sir. 

Eum.    Forbeare,  I  say,  who  is  that  which  pincheth  mee  ?  660 

"Jacke.  Trusting  in  God,  good  Master  Eumenides,  that  you  are 
in  so  good  health  as  all  your  friends  were  at  the  making  hereof, 
God  give  you  God  morrowe,  sir,  lacke  you  not  a  neate,  handsome 
and  cleanly  yong  lad,  about  the  age  of  fifteene  or  sixteene  yeares, 
that  can  runne3  by  your  horse,4  and  for  a  neede  make  your  master-  665 
shippes  shooes  as  blacke  as  incke,  —  howe  say  you  sir? 

Eum.  Alasse,  pretty  lad,  I  know  not  how  to  keepe  my  selfe, 
and  much  lesse  a  servant,  my  pretty  boy,  my  state  is  so  bad. 

"Jacke.  Content  your  selfe,  you  shall  not  bee  so  ill  a  master  but 
ile  bee  as  bad  a  servant.  Tut,  sir,  I  know  you,  though  you  know  not  670 
me.  Are  not  you  the  man,  sir,  denie  it  if  you  can,  sir,5  that  came 
from  a  strange  place  in  the  land  of  Catita,  where  Jacke-a-napes  flies 
with  his  taile  in  his  mouth,  to  seeke  out  a  Ladie  as  white  as  snowe, 
and  as  redd  as  blood  •,  ha,  ha,  have  I  toucht  you  now  ? 

Eum.    I  thinke  this  boy  be  a  spirit.  675 

How  knowst  thou  all  this? 

"Jacke.  Tut,  are  not  you  the  man,  sir,  denie  it  if  you  can,  sir,  that 
gave  all  the  money  you  had  to  the  burying  of  a  poore  man,  and  but 
one  three-halfe-pence  left  in  your  pursse  ?  Content  you,  sir,  Ile  serve 
you,  that  is  flat.  680 

Eum.  Well,  my  lad,  since  thou  art  so  impornate,  I  am  con- 
tent to  entertaine  thee,  not  as  a  servant,  but  a  copartner  in  my 

1  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  correct  this  into  'thy.'  2  As  a  ghost,  of  course. 

3  Below  'runne,'  Sig.   K  ii.  4  The  "foot-page"  of  the  ballads. 

6  These  rhyming  scraps  remind  one  constantly  of  the  canu-Jable^  of  the  formula-jingles  in 
popular  tales. 


376  The    Old  Halves    Tale 

journey.       But   whither  shall  we  goe  ?   for  I   have  not  any  money 
more  than  one  bare  three  halfe-pence. 

Jacke.    Well,  master  content  your  selfe,  for  if  my  divination  bee  685 
not  out,  that  shall  bee  spent  at  the  next  inne  or  alehouse  we  come 
too  ;   for  maister,  I  knowe  you  are  passing  hungrie  ;  therefore  He  goe 
before  and  provide  dinner  untill  that  you  come ;  no  doubt  but  youle 
come  faire  and  softly  after. 

Eu?n.    I,  go  before,  He  follow  thee.  690 

yack.    But  doo  you  heare,  maister,  doo  you  know  my  name  ? 

Eum.    No,  I  promise  thee,  not  yet. 

Jack.    Why,  I  am  Jack.  Exeunt  Jack. 

Eum.    Jack,  why  be  it  so,  then. 

Enter  the  Hostes  and  JACK,  setting  meate  on  the  table,  and  Fidlers  came  1  to 
play,  EUMENIDES  walketk  up  and  downe,  and  will  eate  no  meate. 

Host.    How  say  you,  sir,  doo  you  please  to  sit  downe  ?  695 

Eum.    Hostes,  I  thanke  you,  I  have  no  great  stomack. 

Host.  Pray,  sir,  what  is  the  reason  your  maister  is  so  strange  ? 
Doth  not  this  meate  please  him  ? 

Jack.  Yes,  hostes,  but  it  is  my  maisters  fashion  to  pay  before 
hee  eates,  therefore  a  reckoning,  good  hostesse.  700 

Host.    Marry  shall  you,  sir,  presently.  Exit. 

Eum.  Why,  Jack,  what  doost  thou  meane,  thou  knowest  I  have 
not  any  money  :  therefore,  sweete  Jack,  tell  me  what  shall  I  doo. 

Jack.    Well,  maister,  looke  in  your  pursse.2 

Eum.    Why,  faith,  it  is  a  follie,  for  I  have  no  money.  705 

Jack.    Why,  looke  you,  maister,  doo  so  much  for  me. 

Eum.    Alas,  Jack,  my  pursse  is  full  of  money. 

Jack.    '  Alas,'  maister,  —  does  that  worde  belong  to  this  accident  ? 
Why,  me  thinkes  I  should  have  scene  you  cast  away  your  cloake, 
and  in  a  bravado  daunced  a  galliard  round  about  the  chamber;   why,  710 
maister,  your  man  can  teach  you  more  wit  than  this  ;    come,  hostis 
cheere  up  my  maister. 

Hostis.  You  are  heartily  welcome  :  and  if  it  please  you  to  eate 
of  a  fat  capon,  a  fairer  birde,  a  finer  birde,  a  sweeter  birde,  a 
crisper  birde,  a  neater  birde,  your  worship  never  eate  off.  715 

1  Probably  a  misprint  for  'come.'  2  Below  'pursse,'  Sig.  E  iii. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  377 

Eum.    Thankes,  my  fine  eloquent  hostesse. 

Jack.  But  heare  you,  maister,  one  worde  by  the  way  ;  are  you 
content  I  shall  he  halfes  in  all  you  get  in  your  journey  ? 

Eum.    I  am,  Jack,  here  is  my  hand. 

Jack.    Enough,  maister,  I  aske  no  more.  720 

Eum.  Come,  hostesse,  receive  your  money,  and  I  thanke  you 
for  my  good  entertainment. 

Host.    You  are  heartily  welcome,  sir. 

Eum.    Come,  Jack,  whether  go  we  now  ? 

Jack.    Mary,  maister,  to  the  conjurers  presently.  725 

Eu.    Content,  Jack  :   Hostis,  farewell.  Exe.  am. 

Enter  COREBUS  and  ZELANTO1  the  foule  wench,  to  the  We/I  for  water. 

Coreb.  Come,  my  ducke,  come.  I  have  now  got  a  wife  ;  thou  art 
faire,  art  thou  not  ?  2 

Zelan.    My  Corebus,  the  fairest  alive,  make  no  doubt  of  that. 

Cor.    Come,  wench,  are  we  almost  at  the  wel  ?  730 

Zela.  I,  Corebus,  we  are  almost  at  the  Well  now  ;  He  go  fetch 
some  water  :  sit  downe  while  I  dip  my  pitcher  in. 

Voyce.    Gently  dip  :   but  not  too  deepe  ; 
For  feare  you  make  the  goulde«  beard  to  weepe. 

A  bead  comes  up  with  eares  of  come,  and  she  combes  them  in  her  lap. 

Faire  maiden,  white  and  red, 

Combe  me  smoothe,  and  stroke  my  head, 

And  thou  shalt  have  some  cockell  bread. 

Gently  dippe,  but  not  too  deepe, 

For  feare  thou  make  the  goulde«  beard  to  weep. 

Faire  maide,  white  and  redde,  740 

Combe  me  smooth,  and  stroke  my  head  ; 

And  every  haire  a  sheave  shall  be, 

And  every  sheave  a  goulden  tree. 

A  headz  comes  up  full  of  golde,  she  combes  it  into  her  tap. 

'/.elan.  Oh  see,  Corebus,  I  have  combd  a  great  deale  of  golde 
into  my  lap,  and  a  great  deale  of  corne. 

1  Cclanta-  2  He  is  blind.  8  In  the  tale  there  are  three  heads. 


378  The    Old  IFives    Tale 

Coreb.  Well  said,  wench  ;  now  we  shall  have  just *  enough.  God 
send  us  coiners  to  coine  our  golde.  But  come,  shall  we  go  home, 
sweet  heart  ? 

Ze/an.    Nay,  come,  Corebus,  I  will  lead  you. 

Coreb.    So,  Corebus,  things  have  well  hit,  750 

Thou  hast  gotten  wealth  to  mend  thy  wit.  Exit. 

Enter  JACK  and  the  wandring  knight. 

*Jack.    Come  away,  maister,  come. 

Bum.    Go  along,  Jack,  He  follow  thee. 

Jack,  they  say  it  is  good   to  go  crosse-legged,  and   say   his  prayers 
backward  :  2  how  saiest  thou  ?  7 r  r 

Jack.  Tut,  never  feare,  maister ;  let  me  alone,  heere  sit  you  still, 
speake  not  a  word.  And  because  you  shall  not  be  intised  with  his 
inchanting  speeches,  with  this  same  wooll  He  stop  your  eares  :  and 
so,  maister,  sit  still,  for  I  must  to  the  Conjurer.  Exit  jack. 

Enter  the  Conjurer  to  the  wandring  knight. 

Sa.    How  now,  what  man  art  thou  that  sits  so  sad  ?  760 

Why  dost  thou  gaze  upon  these  stately  trees, 
Without  the  leave  and  will  of  Sacrapant  ? 
What,  not  a  word  but  mum  ? 
Then,  Sacrapant,  thou  art  betraide. 

Enter  JACK  invisible,  and  taketh  off  SACRAPANTS  wreath  from  his  head,  and 

his  sword  out  of  his  hand. 

Sac.    What  hand  invades  the  head  of  Sacrapant  ?  765 

What  hatefull  fury  doth  envy  my  happy  state  ? 
Then,  Sacrapant,  these  are  thy  latest  dayes. 
Alas,  my  vaines  are  numd,  my  sinews  shrinke, 
My  bloud  is  pearst,3  my  breath  fleeting  away, 

And  now  my  timelesse  date  is  come  to  end  :  770 

He  in  whose  life  his  actions4  hath  beene  so  foule, 
Now  in  his  death  to  hell  descends  his  soule. 

He  dyeth. 

1  Dyce's  copy  read  'tost.'      Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel  :   "  Qy. :  'Toast'  ?" 

2  Milton,  Comus,  817  :    "backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power." 

2  Mr.  P.  A.  Daniel  would  read  'iced.'  4  Dy.,  «  Acts.' 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  379 

"Jack.    Oh,  sir,  are  you  gon  ?      Now  I  hope  we  shall  have  some 
other  coile.      Now,  maister,  how  like  you  this  ?   the  Conjurer  hee  is 
dead,  and  vowes  never  to  trouble  us   more.      Now  get  you  to  your  775 
f'aire  Lady,  and  see  what  you  can  doo  with  her.    Alas,  he  heareth  me 
not  all  this  while ;   but  I  will  helpe  that. 

He  pulles  the  wooll  out  of  bis  eares. 

Eum.    How  now,  Jack,  what  news  ? 

"Jack.  Heere,  maister,  take  this  sword  and  dig  with  it,  at  the 
foote  of  this  hill.  780 

He  digs  and  spies  a  light. 

Eum.    How  now,  Jack,  what  is  this  ? 

Jack.  Maister,  without  this  the  Conjurer  could  do  nothing,  and 
so  long  as  this  light  lasts,  so  long  doth  his  arte  indure,  and  this 
being  out,  then  doth  his  arte  decay. 

Eum.    Why  then,  Jack,  I  will  soone  put  out  this  light.  785 

Jack.    I,  maister,  how  ? 

Eum.  Why  with  a  stone  He  breake  the  glasse,  and  then  blowe 
it  out. 

Jack.    No,  maister,  you  may  as  soone  breake  the  smiths  anfill, 
as  this   little   vyoll;    nor  the   biggest  blast  that   ever  Boreas  blew,  790 
cannot   blowe  out   this  little  light ;   but  she  that  is  neither  maide,1 
wife,    nor    widowe.       Maister,    winde    this   home ;    and    see   what 
will   happen. 

He  windes  the  home. 

Heere  enters  VENELIA  and  breakes  the  glasse,  and  blowes  out  the  light,  and 

goeth  in  againe. 

Jack.    So,  maister,  how  like  you  this  ?      This  is   she  that   ramie 
madding  in  the  woods,  his  betrothed  love  that  keepes  the  crosse;  and  795 
nowe,  this  light  being  out,  all  are  restored  to  their  former  libertie. 
And    now,    maister,    to    the    Lady    that   you   have   so    long    looked 
for. 

He  drawcth  a  cur  ten,  and  there  DELIA  sitteth  a  sleepe. 

1  Below  '  maide,'  Sig.  F. 


380  The    Old   Wives    Tale 

Eu?n.    God  speed,  faire  maide  sitting  alone  :   there  is  once. 

God  speed,  faire  maide;   there  is  twise  :  800 

God  speed,  faire  maide,  that  is  thrise. 

Delia.    Not  so,  good  sir,  for  you  are  by. 

Jack.    Enough,  maister,  she  hath  spoke ;  now  I  will  leave  her 
with  you. 

Eum.    Thou  fairest  flower  of  these  westerne  parts,  805 

Whose  beautie  so  reflecteth  in  my  sight, 
As  doth  a  christall  mirror  in  the  sonne  : 
For  thy  sweet  sake  I  have  crost  the  frosen  Rhine,1 
Leaving  faire  Po,  I  saild  up  Danuby, 

As  farre  as  Saba,  whose  inhansing  streames  810 

Cuts  twixt  the  Tartars  and  the  Russians, — 
These  have  I  crost  for  thee,  faire  Delia  : 
Then  grant  me  that  which  I  have  sude  for  long. 

Del.    Thou  gentle  knight,  whose  fortune  is  so  good, 
To  finde  me  out,  and  set  my  brothers  free,  815 

My  faith,  my  heart,  my  hand,  I  give  to  thee. 

Eum.    Thankes,  gentle  madame  :   but  heere  comes  Jack;  thanke 
him,  for  he  is  the  best  friend  that  we  have. 

Enter  JACK  with  a  bead  in  bis  band. 

Eum.    How  now,  Jack,  what  hast  thou  there  ? 

"Jack.    Mary,  maister,  the  head  of  the  conjurer.  820 

Eum.    Why,  Jack,  that  is  impossible;   he  was  a  young  man. 

Jack.  Ah,  maister,  so  he  deceived  them  that  beheld  him  :  but 
hee  was  a  miserable,  old,  and  crooked  man  ;  though  to  each  mans 
eye  h  [e  see]  med  young  and  fresh.  For,  maister,  this  Conjurer  tooke 
the  shape  of  the  olde  man  that  kept  the  crosse :  and  that  olde  man  825 
was  in  the  likenesse  of  the  Conjurer.2  But  nowe,  maister,  winde 
vour  home.  He  windes  bis  borne. 

Enter  VF.NELIA,  the  two  Brothers,  and  be  that  was  at  the  Crosse. 

Eu.    Welcome,  Erestus,  welcome,  faire  Venelia,3 
Welcome,  Thelea,  and  Kalepha  4  both  ! 

1  Dy.  notes  that  this  and  the  three  following  lines  are  taken  almost  verbatim  from  Greene's 
Orlando  Furioto.  2  It  is  not  necessary  to  adopt  Mr.  Daniel's  emendation. 

8  Below  '  Venelia,'  Sig.  V  ii.  *  Calypha. 


The    Old  Wives    Tale  381 

Now  have  I  her  that  I  so  long  have  sought,  830 

So  saith  faire  Delia,  if  we  have  your  consent. 

/.  Bro.    Valiant  Eumenides,  thou  well  deservest 
To  have  our  favours  :   so  let  us  rejoyce, 
That  by  thy  meanes  we  are  at  libertie. 

Heere  may  we  joy  each  in  others  sight,  835 

And  this  faire  Lady  have  her  wandring  knight. 

Jack.  So,  maister,  nowe  yee  thinke  you  have  done :  but  I  must 
have  a  saying  to  you.  You  know  you  and  I  were  partners,  I  to 
have  halfe  in  all  you  got. 

Eum.    Why,  so  thou  shalt,  Jack.  840 

Jack.  Why,  then,  maister  draw  your  sworde,  part  your  Lady,  let 
mee  have  halfe  of  her  presently. 

Eumenid.  Why,  I  hope,  Jack,  thou  doost  but  jest ;  I  promist  thee 
halfe  I  got,  but  not  halfe  my  Lady. 

Jack.    But  what  else,  maister?  have  you  not  gotten  her  ?     There-  845 
fore  devide  her  straight,  for  I  will  have  halfe ;  there  is  no  remedie. 

Rumen.  Well,  ere  I  will  falsifie  my  worde  unto  my  friend,  take 
her  all ;  heere  Jack,  He  give  her  thee. 

Jacke.    Nay,  neither  more  nor  lesse,  maister,  but  even  just  halfe. 

Eum.    Before  I  will  falsifie  my  faith  unto  my  friend,  I  will  divide  850 
hir ;  Jacke,  thou  shalt  have  halfe. 

/.  Brother.    Bee  not  so  cruell  unto  our  sister,  gentle  knight. 

2.  Brother.    O  spare  faire  Delia  ;  shee  deserves  no  death. 

Eum.  Content  your  selves ;  my  word  is  past  to  him  ;  therefore 
prepare  thy  selfe,  Delya,  for  thou  must  die.  855 

Delya.    Then,  farewell,  worlde  ;  adew  Eumenides. 

He  offers  to  strike  and  JACKE  stales  him. 

Jacke.    Stay,  master ;  it  is  sufficient  I  have  tride  your  constancie. 

Do  you  now  remember  since  you  paid  for  the  burying  of  a  poore 

fellow  ? 

Eum.    I,  very  well,  Jacke.  860 

Jacke.    Then,  master,  thanke  that  good  deed  for  this  good  turne, 

and  so  God  be  with  you  all. 

JACKE  leapes  downe  in  the  ground. 


382  The    Old  Wives    Tale 

Eum.  Jacke,  what,  art  thou  gone  ? 
Then  farewell,  Jacke. 

Come,  brothers  and  my  beauteous  Delya,  865 

Erestus,  and  thy  deare  Venelia  : 
We  will  to  Thessalie  with  joyfull  hearts. 

All.    Agreed,  we  follow  thee  and  Delya. 

Exeunt  omnes.1 

Fant.    What,  Gammer,  a  sleepe  ? 

Old  worn.    By  the  Mas,  sonne,  tis  almost  day,  and  my  windowes  870 
shut  2  at  the  cocks  crow. 

Frol.    Doo  you  heare,  Gammer,  mee  thinkes  this  Jacke  bore  a 
great  sway  amongst  them. 

Old  worn.    O,  man,  this  was  the  ghost  of  the  poore  man,  that 
they  kept  such  a  coyle  to  burie,  &  that  makes   him  to   help  the  875 
wandring  knight  so  much.     But  come,  let  us  in  :  we  will  have  a  cup 
of  ale  and  a  tost  this  morning  and  so  depart.3 

Fant.    Then  you  have  made  an  end  of  your  tale,  Gammer  ? 

Old  worn.    Yes,  faith.     When  this  was  done,  I  tooke  a  peece  of 
bread  and   cheese,  and  came   my  way,  and  so  shall  you  have,  too,  880 
before  you  goe,  to  your  breakefast. 

1  That  is,  all  the  actors  of  the  play  within  the  play.      Below  '  Omnes,''  Sig.  F  iii. 

2  Q.,  shuts.  3  Part. 


FINIS. 


Printed  at  London  by  John  Danter,  for  Rapb 
Hancocke,  and  Jbbn  Hardie,  and  are  to 
be  solde  at  the  shop  over  against 
S«int  Giles  his  Church  with- 
out Criplegate. 
'595- 


APPENDIX 

A.  Characters:  their  Sources. — T.  Warton,  in  1785  (Mi/ton's  Poems 
tn  Several  Occasions),  pointed  out  that  "the  names  of  some  of  the  charac- 
ters as  Sacrapant,  Chorebus,  and  others,  are  taken  from  the  Orlando  Furioso." 
Peele  quotes  Ariosto  freely  near  the  end  of  Edward  I.      Storojenko  (Grosart's 
Greene,  I,  180)  thinks  the  Sacrapant  in  Greene's  Orlando  Furioso  "a  very 
transparent  parody  of  Tamburlaine.''*      Mr.  Fleay,  with  some  daring,  asserts 
that  Huanebango  is  travestied  from   Huon   o'  Bordeaux,   and  is   "  palpably 
Harvey."        Erestus,  says  the  same  authority,  is  from  Kyd's   Soliman  and 
Perseda  ;   "the  play  is  evidently  full  of  personal  allusions,  which  time  only 
can  elucidate."      Mr.  Ward  remarks  that  Jack  is  "namesake  and  rival  of 
the  immortal  giant-killer."      The  classics,  of  course,  are  represented.      War- 
ton  remarked  that  the  story  of  Meroe  could  be  found  in  Adlington's  trans- 
lation of  Apuleius,   I  566  ;  but  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  go  to  such  a  source 
for  the  "White  Bear  of  England's  Wood." 

B.  The  Song  of  the  Harvesters.  —  When  the  harvest-men  enter  again, 
and  sing  the  song  "doubled,  "   —as  here,  — it  is  evidently  the  same  thing, 
a  companion  piece,   only   with   reaping  in  place  of  sowing,   and  words  to 
match  :  — 

"  Lo,  here  we  come  a-reaping,  a-reaping, 

To  reap  our  harvest-fruit. 
And  thus  we  pass  the  year  so  long, 
And  never  be  we  mute." 

Is  it  too  much,  then,  to  assume  that  the  present  song  is  to  be  restored  some- 
what as  follows  ?  — 

Lo  here  we  come  a-sowing,  a-sowing, 

And  sow  sweet  fruits  of  love. 
All  that  lovers  be  pray  you  for  me,  — 

In  your  sweethearts  well  may  it  prove. 

They  would  naturally  enter  with  motions  of  sowing  or  of  reaping,  and  the 
opening  words  would  fit  the  action.      Moreover,  "  In  your  sweethearts  well 

3»3 


384  Appendix 

may  it  prove"  must  refer  to  requital  not  for  the  act  of  sowing,  but  for  the 
prayers  invoked.  These  craft-songs  were  common  enough.  In  Summer's 
Last  Will  and  Testament  the  harvest-men  sing  an  old  folk-song  of  this  kind, 
if  one  may  judge  by  the  Hooky,  booky  of  the  refrain,  said  by  one  of  the  Dods- 
ley  editors  (ed.  1825,  IX,  41)  to  be  heard  still  "in  some  parts  of  the  king- 
dom." The  curious  in  these  matters  may  find  valuable  information  about 
songs  of  labour  in  general,  with  imitative  action  and  suitable  refrains,  in 
Biicher's  Arbeit  und  Rhythmus,  Abhandlungen  d.  phil.-hist.  Classe  d. 
konigl.  Sachsischen  Gesell.  d.  Wissenschaften,  Bd.  XVII. 

Additional  Note.  — P.  368,  1.  491,  for  'church  stile,'  F.  A.  Daniel  queries  'church 
ale'  :  —  but  see  Overbury's  Characters  (Works,  p.  145),  "  A  Sexton  "  :  '  for  at  every  church 
stile  commonly  ther's  an  ale-house.' 


Robert   Greene 


HIS   PLACE    IN    COMEDY 


A  Monograph  by  G.  E.  Woodberry, 
Professor  in  Columbia  University, 
New  York. 


GREENE'S    PLACE    IN    COMEDY 

OF  the  group  of  gifted  college-bred  men  who  had  some  part  in  the 
fashioning  of  Shakespearian  drama  and  drew  into  their  mortal  lungs 
a  breath  of  the  element  whose  "air  was  fame,"  Greene  has  long 
been  marked  with  unenviable  distinction.  He  had  the  misfortune 
to  try  to  darken  with  an  early  and  single  shaft  the  rising  sun  of 
Shakespeare  ;  and  he  has  stood  out  like  a  shadow  against  that  dawn- 
ing genius  ever  since.  The  mean  circumstances  of  his  Bohemian 
career,  and  the  terribly  brutal,  Zolaesquc  scene  of  his  death-cham- 
ber—  the  most  repulsively  gruesome  in  English  literary  annals  — 
have  sustained  with  a  lurid  light  the  unfavourable  impression  ;  and, 
were  this  really  all,  no  one  would  have  grudged  oblivion  the  man's 
memory.  The  edition  of  his  collected  works,  however,  which 
Grosart  gave  to  scholars,  has  enlarged  general  knowledge  of  Greene, 
and  has  permitted  the  formation  of  a  more  various  image  of  his 
personality,  a  juster  estimate  of  his  literary  temperament,  and  a 
clearer  judgment  concerning  his  position  in  the  Elizabethan  move- 
ment of  dramatic  imagination  ;  and  some  few,  even  before  this,  had 
lifted  up  protestation  against  that  ready  damnation  which  seemed 
provided  for  him  bv  his  irreverence  toward  the  undiscovered  god 
of  our  idolatry  who,  then  fleeting  his  golden  days,  seemed  to  this 
jaundiced  eye  "  an  upstart  crow  beautified  with  our  feathers,  .  .  . 
the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country."  Never  were  more  unfortunate 
words  for  the  "blind  mouth"  that  uttered  them.  But  there  is 
more  to  know  of  Greene  than  this  one  speech  ;  and  though  the 
occasion  is  not  apt  here  for  so  complete  a  valuation  of  his  charac- 
ter and  temperament,  his  deeds  ;i:vl  works,  as  is  to  be  desired  for 
truth's  sake,  yet  it  is  needful  to  take  some  notice  of  his  total 
personality  as  evinced  in  his  novels,  plays,  poems,  and  pamphlets, 


388  Greene  s    Place   in    Comedy 

in  order  to  determine  his  relative  station  in  the  somewhat  limited 
sphere  of  English  comedy. 

Marlowe  is  commonly  regarded  as  the  forerunner  of  the  heroic 
strain  in  Shakespeare,  with  moulding  influence  on  the  imaginative 
habit  of  his  younger  fellow-workman  in  respect  to  that  phase  of 
his  art ;  and  Greene,  who  though  he  will  never  shine  as  a  u  morn- 
ing-star" of  the  drama  was  at  least  a  twin  luminary  with  Marlowe, 
has  been  credited  with  occupying  a  similar  position  as  the  fore- 
runner of  Shakespeare  with  respect  to  the  portrayal  of  vulgar  life. 
It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  an  antithesis  so  convenient  for 
the  critics  should  be  really  matter-of-fact.  The  narrower  dis- 
tinct claim  that  the  Clown  in  his  successive  reincarnations  passed 
through  the  world  of  Greene's  stage  on  his  way  from  his  old  fleshlv 
prison  in  the  Vice  of  the  primitive  English  play  may  require  less 
argument ;  and  in  several  other  particulars  it  may  appear  that  fore- 
gleams  of  the  Shakespearian  drama  are  discernible  in  Greene's 
works  without  drawing  the  consequence  that  Shakespeare  was  neces- 
sarily a  pupil  in  every  school  that  was  open  to  him.  Not  to  treat 
the  matter  too  precisely,  where  precision  is  apt  to  be  illusory  even 
if  attainable  in  appearance,  was  there  not  a  plain  growth  of  Greene 
as  a  man  of  letters  closely  attached  to  his  time  which  will  illustrate 
the  general  development  of  the  age  and  its  art,  and  naturally  bring 
out  those  analogies  between  his  work  and  Shakespeare's  that  have 
been  thought  of  as  formative  elements  in  him  by  which  his  suc- 
cessor on  the  stage  profited  ?  The  line  of  descent  does  not  matter, 
on  the  personal  side,  if  the  general  direction  of  progress  be  made 
out. 

Greene  was  distinctively  a  man  of  letters.  He  was  born  with 
the  native  gift,  and  he  put  it  to  use  in  many  ways.  He  tried  all 
kinds  of  writing,  from  prose  to  verse,  from  song  to  sermon,  and 
apparently  with  equal  interest.  He  was  college-bred  and  must  have 
been  of  a  scholarly  and  receptive  temperament;  he  was  variously 
read  in  different  languages  and  subjects  ;  and  he  began  by  being  what 
he  charged  Shakespeare  with  being,  —  an  adapter.  His  tales,  like 
others  of  the  time,  must  be  regarded  as  in  large  measure  appropria- 
tions from  the  fields  of  foreign  fiction.  Even  as  he  went  on  and 
gained  a  freer  hand  for  expression,  he  remained  imitative  of  others, 


Greene  s    Place   in    Comedy  389 

with  occasional  flashes  of  his  own  talent ;  and,  dying  young,  he 
cannot  be  thought  to  have  given  his  genius  its  real  trial  of  thorough 
originality.  In  the  main  his  work  is  derivative  and  secondary  and 
represents  or  reflects  literary  tradition  and  example ;  he  was  still  in 
the  process  of  disencumbering  himself  of  this  external  reliance  when 
he  was  exhausted,  and  perished  ;  and  it  is  in  those  later  parts  of  his 
work  which  show  originality  that  he  is  attached  to  the  Shake- 
spearian drama.  Slight  examination  will  justify  this  general  state- 
ment in  detail.  It  is  agreed  that  he  drew  his  earlier  novels  from 
the  stock-fiction,  with  its  peculiar  type  of  woman  and  its  moral 
lesson  ;  and  he  shows  in  these  sensibility  of  imagination  and  grace 
of  style.  He  was,  more  than  has  been  thought,  a  stylist,  a  born 
writer;  and  this  of  itself  would  interest  him  in  the  euphuistic 
fashion,  then  coming  to  its  height  in  Lyly  ;  and  besides  he  always 
kept  his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  time  and  was  ambitious  to  suc- 
ceed by  pleasing  the  popular  taste  :  he  adopted  euphuism  tempo- 
rarily, employing  it  in  his  own  way.  In  the  drama  his  play, 
Orlando  Furioso,  harks  back  to  Ariosto,  and  it  was  when  the  stage 
rang  with  Tamburlaine  that  he  brought  out  Alpbonsus,  King  of 
Aragon,  and  when  Doctor  Faustus  was  on  the  boards  that  he  fol- 
lowed with  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay ;  on  Sidney's  Arcadia 
succeeded  his  own  Menaphon  ;  and  if  James  IT.  with  its  Oberon 
preceded  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  —  which  is  undetermined  — 
it  was  a  unique  inversion  of  the  order  which  made  Greene  always 
the  second  and  not  the  first.  In  view  of  this  literary  chronology 
it  seems  clear  that  in  the  start  and  well  on  into  his  career  Greene 
was  the  sensitive  and  ambitious  writer  following  where  Italian 
tradition,  contemporary  genius,  and  popular  acclaim  blazed  the 
way  ;  and  in  so  doing  his  individual  excellence  lay  not  in  origi- 
nality on  the  great  scale,  but  in  treatment,  in  his  modification  of  the 
genre,  in  his  individual  style  and  manner  and  purport  —  in  the 
virtues,  that  is  to  say,  of  an  able,  clever,  variously  equipped  man 
of  letters  whose  talent  had  not  yet  discovered  the  core  of  genius  in 
itself. 

It  is  observable,  too,  in  the  earlier  period  of  his  work,  that  in  his 
treatment  of  his  material  so  derived,  he  displays  the  qualities  of  the 
weaker,  the  less  robust  literary  habit ;  he  uses  refinement,  he  is 


390  Greene  s   Place   in    Comedy 

• 

checked  by  his  good  taste,  he  strives  for  effects  less  violent,  less  sen- 
sational, less  difficult  in  the  sense  that  it  requires  less  of  the  giant's 
strength  to  carry  them  off  well.  There  is  little,  too,  in  this  portion 
of  his  work  which  lets  personality  burn  through  the  literary  mould; 
that  belongs  to  his  late  and  stronger  time.  It  is  true  that  his  novels 
have  a  moral  in  them  for  edification  ;  but,  although  he  had  the 
preacher's  voice,  it  is  not  here  in  the  earlier  tales  that  it  is  heard  ; 
it  was  the  immemorial  privilege  of  the  Renaissance  tale,  however 
scandalous,  to  wear  cowl  and  cassock.  In  the  cardinal  point  of  his 
delineation  of  female  character,  for  which  he  is  highly  praised  because 
of  the  purity  and  grace  of  the  womanhood  he  presented,  he  follows 
the  Renaissance  convention,  as  it  seems  to  me,  but  with  refining 
and  often  true  English  touches — that  ideal  of  Italian  origin  which 
is,  on  the  whole,  one  of  outline,  of  pale  graciousness,  of  immobile 
or  expressive  beauty,  pictorial ;  these  women  seem  like  lovely  por- 
traits which  have  stepped  down  out  of  a  frame,  and  have  only  so 
much  of  life  as  an  environment  of  light  and  air  and  silence  can  give 
them.  Are  they  not,  for  example,  as  truly  like  Spenser's  women  — 
except  where  Spenser's  are  differentiated  by  doing  "  manly  "  parts 
—  as  they  are  prophetic  of  Shakespeare's  simpler  types  ?  Greene, 
no  doubt,  incorporated  in  this  ideal  something  of  his  own  experi- 
ence of  noble  and  patient  womanhood,  possibly  as  he  had  known 
it  in  his  wife,  as  Shakespeare  embodied  eternal  reality  in  his  creations; 
but  it  would  not  occur  to  me  to  believe  that  Shakespeare  found  a 
model  tor  Ophelia  or  Imogen  in  the  Lady  Ida  and  Dorothea,  any 
more  than  in  Una  and  her  sisters.  All  these  before  Shakespeare  are 
of  one  family  —  they  are  the  conventionalized  Renaissance  ideal 
variouslv  modified  and  filled  with  richer  artistic  life  ;  but  in  Shake- 
speare they  pass  into  that  clear  luminous  air  where  art  and  humanity 
are  one  thing.  Greene  should  have  our  admiration  for  his  sensibility 
to  the  type,  for  the  appreciation  with  which  he  drew  it,  for  the  charm 
he  thereby  clothed  his  pages  with;  but  as  to  there  being  a  line  of 
descent,  that  is  altogether  another  thing  ;  and  in  respect  to  Greene 
himself,  his  special  female  characterization  imports  the  element  of 
refinement  in  him,  the  trait  of  the  less  robust  literary  habit  just 
spoken  of.  Similarly,  he  was  of  too  sound  taste  to  be  long  content 
to  speak  in  the  cut  phrase  of  euphuism,  and  he  soon  laid  the  fashion 


Greenes    Place   in    Comedy  391 

off;  and,  in  his  afterplay  on  the  Tamburlaine  motive,  it  is  a  matter 
of  debate  whether  he  was  parodying  or  rivalling  Marlowe's  large- 
languaged  rhetoric,  and,  whichever  he  was  doing,  he  was  hampered 
by  a  better  taste  than  his  model,  either  laughing  at  it,  or  else  with- 
out the  giant's  strength  to  succeed  in  the  worser  way ;  and  to 
Doctor  Faustus  and  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay,  so  far  as  they 
are  compared,  like  remarks  apply.  Greene  has  his  own  virtues 
in  all  these  instances,  but  they  arc  not  those  of  originating 
power,  of  creative  overflow,  of  genius  of  the  Elizabethan  stripe  ; 
they  live  within  the  narrower  circle  of  improvement  through  refined 
taste,  or  else  of  satirical  protest  or  comparative  failure  due  to  the 
same  trait. 

The  thought  of  refinement  in  connection  with  Greene,  the  stress 
laid  upon  it  here,  has  not  been  commonly  prominent  in  writings 
upon  him,  and  is  out  of  harmony  with  our  traditional  impression  of 
him  —  the  envious  and  dying  profligate  in  his  misery.  Yet  it  is  to 
be  found  not  only  in  his  early  portraits  of  womanhood  of  the  pure 
type  (he  afterward  presented  a  baser  one),  nor  in  the  fact  often 
noted  of  the  marked  purity  of  his  works  ;  but  more  pervasively  in 
his  continuing  taste,  in  those  habits  and  choices  in  the  literary  field, 
those  revolts  and  reforms,  which  show  the  steady  Tightness  of  the 
man  in  his  self-criticism  and  his  criticism  of  current  successes.  I 
seem  to  feel  this  innate  refinement  in  the  limpidity  of  single  lines; 
but  it  is  plain  to  every  one  in  the  lovely  lyrics  which  have  sung 
themselves  into  the  hearts  of  all  lovers  of  our  poetry,  those  songs, 
found  in  all  anthologies  of  English  verse,  which  bear  Greene's 
name.  He  was  a  gross  man,  living  grossly,  as  all  know;  but  it 
sometimes  happens  that  in  such  fleshly  natures  —  as,  every  one  will 
at  once  think,  in  Ben  Jonson  —  there  is  found  this  flower  of  deli- 
cacy, the  very  fragrance  of  the  soul ;  and  so  it  was  with  Greene, 
and  the  lyrics  are  the  mortal  sign  of  this  inward  grace.  It  belongs 
with  this,  as  has  been  observed  by  several  writers,  that  of  all  the 
men  who  preceded  Shakespeare,  Greene  most  lets  the  breath  of  t he- 
English  country  blow  through  his  pages,  and  likes  to  lay  his  scene  in 
some  rural  spot.  He  loved  the  country;  and  yet,  here  too,  protest 
may  well  be  made  when  it  is  said  that  in  this  he  led  the  way  tor 
Shakespeare;  surely  all  country  paths  were  open  to  the  Warwickshire 


39 2  Greene  s    Place   in    Comedy 

lad  in  his  own  right  ;  nor  need  the  difference  be  allowed  that  the 
forest  of  Arden  is  a  conventionalized  nature,  as  one  critic  main- 
tains, while  Greene's  is  of  the  soil  —  that  is  to  mistake  art  for  con- 
vention; but  to  say  even  this  one  word  in  passing  in  behalf  of 
Shakespeare's  nature-reality  is  superfluous,  except  that  it  suggests  the 
different  road  by  which  Shakespeare  here,  as  well  as  in  his  dealing 
with  madness,  witchcraft,  and  fairyland  (in  all  of  which  Greene  is 
said  to  have  taught  him),  went  his  own  ways,  irrespective  of  com- 
rades of  the  time.  In  this  love  of  the  country  which  Greene  had 
lies  the  key  to  the  better  man  in  him  and  to  his  own  native  dis- 
tinctions. Beneath  his  literary  temperament,  which  seems  an  edu- 
cational and  professional  veneer  that  should  finally  drop  away,  is 
his  genuine  nature  —  the  man  he  was;  and,  life  going  on  to  immi- 
nent wreck,  it  became  clear  in  his  later  works  that  he  was  more 
and  more  engaged  in  contemporary  life,  in  what  he  saw  and  knew, 
and  that  he  took  his  material  from  these  ;  he  had  written  autobio- 
graphical sketches  and  accounts  of  low  life  and  its  characters,  and 
he  had  displayed  certain  tendencies  toward  preaching  and  sympa- 
thies with  the  unredeemed  masses  of  humanity,  all  somewhat  mis- 
cellaneously, and  without  any  other  art  than  a  strong  prose  style  ; 
but,  at  the  end,  is  it  not  manifest  that  he  had  grown  into  realism  as 
his  material,  and  into  an  attitude  of  moral  denunciation  and  popular 
sympathy  in  dealing  with  it,  and  is  not  this  the  significance  of  his 
collaboration  with  Lodge  in  A  Looki ng- Glasse  for  London  and  England, 
and  of  his  own  unique  George'-a-Greene?  All  the  earlier  work  seems 
to  end,  and  new  beginnings  appear  both  in  his  renderings  of  con- 
temporary realism,  and  in  his  most  imaginative  and  various  play, 
'James  I¥. 

The  gradual  substitution,  then,  as  Greene  came  to  his  time  of 
strength,  of  frank  English  realism  for  cultured  Italian  tradition  and 
contemporary  vital  literary  example,  seems  to  be  the  true  line  of  his 
growth.  It  shows  distinctly  in  his  choice  of  the  English  subject  of 
Roger  Bacon  in  place  of  Doctor  Eaustus,  in  his  satire  of  certain 
aspects  of  court  life,  when  he  translated  an  Italian  plot  of  Cinthio 
into  apocryphal  history  as  'James  II .,  in  his  presentation  of  the  state 
of  London  in  collaboration  with  Lodge,  and  in  the  half-rebellious 
play  of  George-a-Greene.  This  is  the  imaginative  and  artistic  side 


Greene  s   Place   in    Comedy  393 

of  what  is  practical  in  his  pamphlets  of  personal  repentance  and 
cony-catching.  Personally  I  seem  to  detect  Puritanism  morally  in 
the  one  half,  and  Puritanism  politically  in  the  other  half,  of  this  late 
dramatic  work;  but  it  cannot  be  maintained  that  the  case  is  cer- 
tain. Apart  from  that,  Greene  was  —  what  so  few  ever  are,  even 
in  an  Elizabethan  environment  —  a  humourist ;  and  he  used  the  old 
English  comedy  tradition  as  an  element  in  his  purely  English  work. 
The  matter  is  so  plain  and  comparatively  so  slight  as  to  require 
the  fewest  words.  In  comedy  specifically  he  gave  examples,  which 
he  may  be  said  to  have  first  given  in  the  sense  that  he  gave  them  in 
an  original  or  a  developed  form,  of  the  court  fool  in  Ralph,  of  the 
country  bumpkin  or  crass  fool  in  Miles,  of  the  highly  developed  and 
wholly  humanized  Vice  in  Adam,  of  a  special  humouristic  type 
(aptly  characterized  as  the  ancestor  of  Andrew  Fairservice)  in 
Andrew,  otherwise  not  born  till  Sir  Walter  Scott's  day,  and  of  the 
true  Shakespearian  clown,  the  unmistakable  one,  in  Slipper.  Such 
was  his  definite  service  to  comedy  in  respect  to  type  ;  and  criticism 
can  only  point  it  out,  because  the  substance  can  be  given  only  by 
reading  the  characters  attentively.  In  regard  to  humour  at  large,  it 
appears  to  me  that  in  his  hands,  apart  from  linguistic  felicity  and 
wit,  he  presents  a  humour  of  situation  tending  toward  pure  farce,  and 
a  humour  of  intention  tending  toward  pure  satire  of  the  social  variety, 
and  a  humour  of  manners  tending  toward  pure  pleasantry  as  in  the 
"  Vail  Staft  "  episode.  The  single  link  binding  him  with  Shakespeare, 
in  comedy  is  through  the  character  of  Slipper;  and  yet  here,  as  in 
the  other  instances  of  female  type,  love  of  country  scenes,  and  also 
in  madness,  witchcraft,  and  fairyland,  I  cannot  believe  that  Shake- 
speare may  not  have  arrived  at  his  end  —  in  this  case,  Launce  — 
without  necessarily  being  obliged  to  Greene  for  assistance.  The 
bent  toward  contemporary  realism,  toward  a  well-languaged  and 
winning  clown,  toward  Englishry,  which  is  another  name  for  nature 
in  human  life  and  its  setting,  is  plain  in  Greene ;  this  was  the 
running  of  the  stream  ;  but  no  larger  inference  follows  from  it  in  my 
mind  than  that  Greene  had  worked  out  his  growth,  as  Shakespeare 
in  his  apprenticeship  also  did,  in  similar  directions,  but  that  Greene 
had  done  it  on  national  lines,  whereas  Shakespeare  did  it  on  uni- 
versal lines,  that  Greene  had  done  it  in  a  practical,  whereas  Shake- 


394  Greene  s    Place   in    Comedy 

speare  did  it  in  an  ideal  way,  and  that  Greene  had  done  it  largely 
under  personal  conditions,  being  at  war  with  his  fate  as  a  mere 
man,  whereas  Shakespeare  did  it  as  a  human  spirit  above  the  reach  of 
material  vicissitude.  What  one  owed  to  the  other  is  an  insignifi- 
cant detail  at  best ;  what  is  important  is  to  observe  in  Greene  the 
advancing  movement  of  the  drama  in  moral  intention,  in  higher 
characterization,  in  original  phases  of  humanity,  in  humour  of  more 
body  and  intellect,  in  comedy  and  fantasy  approaching  the  goal  of 
the  Elizabethan  spirit.  Greene,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  opened 
some  veins  that  no  one  followed  up;  some  of  his  characters  and 
much  of  his  sympathies  were  his  own  in  an  unshared  way  ;  but  his 
work  of  all  kinds  ended  with  him,  and,  so  far  as  he  was  an  explorer 
of  the  way,  he  was  most  like'  one  who,  in  our  own  time,  may  be  an 
experimenter  in  some  new  force — his  name  is  not  associated  with 
scientific  history,  with  new  invention,  with  discovery,  but  such  suc- 
cess as  he  had  was  because  his  eye  was  on  the  element  which  men 
of  his  craft  were  working  out  more  thoroughly  than  he  himself. 

It  is  pleasant  to  close  this  brief  note  on  one  of  the  most  unfor- 
tunate of  men  whom  our  literature  remembers,  with  a  kindlier  appre- 
ciation of  him  than  has  hitherto  obtained.  The  mere  volume  of 
his  writings  indicates  great  industry;  the  criticism  of  them  wit- 
nesses our  respect  for  his  endowments,  his  taste,  his  fundamental 
manhood  ;  the  analysis  of  them  shows  improvement  in  himself,  and 
the  power  of  mastery  over  the  material  given  him  in  the  direction 
of  the  true  progress  of  art  in  his  day  ;  the  very  violence  of  his  fate 
or  of  his  repentances  suggests  that  the  nature  so  ruined  may  have 
been  of  finer  and  better  metal  than  those  who  died  and  made  no 
such  sign  of  conscious  self-obstruction  :  there  remain  the  ideal 
women,  the  clear-cut  comedians,  the  lovely  lyrics,  to  plead  for  him 
as  an  accomplisher  of  art;  and,  in  view  of  this,  may  we  not  forget 
the  unhappy  incident  that  has  made  him  like  the  flitting  bat  in  the 
slow  dawn  of  our  golden  poet,  and  remember  the  much  that  he, 
dying  so  young,  at  thirty-two,  accomplished  before  the  day  of  his 
disappointment,  the  night  of  his  deserted  solitude,  and  the  tragic 
ignominy  of  his  death  ? 

G.     E.     WOODBERRY. 


Robert  Greene 


THE    HONORABLE    HISTORIE    OF 
FRIER    BACON 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and  Notes 
by  Charles  Mills  Gay  ley,  LL.D., 
Professor  in  the  University  of 
California. 


CRITICAL   ESSAY 

Life.1  —  Robert  Greene  was  born  in  Norwich  of  estimable  parents,  and 
"  in  his  non-age  "  sent  there  to  school.  He  was  entered  November  15,  1575, 
at  St.  John's,  Cambridge.  According  to  his  Short  Discourse,  he  was  even 
then  "in  his  first  yeares."  We  may,  therefore,  date  his  birth  about  1560. 
At  the  university  he  "  light  amongst  wags"  as  lewd  as  himself,  and  was  by 
them  drawn,  probably  after  he  had  taken  his  B.A.,  1578,  "to  travell  into 
Italy  and  Spaine,"  where  he  "  practizde  such  villainie  as  is  abhominable  to 
declare."  After  his  return  (probably  before  Part  I.  of  his  Mamillia  was 
entered  for  printing,  October  3,  1580, — certainly  by  March  20,  1581, 
when  his  ballad  of  Tout  be2  was  registered),  he  "  ruffelcd  out  in  silks  "  posing 
as  "  malcontent  "  ;  but  having  in  i  583,''*  "  by  degrees  proceeded  M.A.,"  he 
betook  himself  to  London,  where  as  "  Author  of  Playes  and  penner  of  Love 
Pamphlets"  none  soon  was  better  known  "than  Robin  Greene."  Perhaps 
he  was  in  Cambridge,  September  6,  1583,  when  the  Second  Part  of  Mamillia 
was  registered,  for  it  is  dated  "from  my  Studie  in  Clare  hall."  Till  about 
August  13,  I  584,  he  was  writing  similar  tales  ;  and,  despite  a  dissolute  habit, 
he  maintained  favour  with  some  of  honourable  calling.  His  Planetomacbia 
appeared  in  1585  ;  an  edition  of  his  Morando*  is  licensed  during  the  next 
year.  Between  1584  and  1586  he  visited  his  former  home,  made  a  fleeting 
effort  at  reform,  married  a  "  proper  young  woman  "  of  Lincolnshire, 5  had  a 
son  by  her,  "  cast  her  off,"  and  returned  to  London.  Here  he  gave  himself 
"  wholly  to  the  penning  of  plaies,"  which  with  "other  trifling  pamphlets" 
were  henceforth  his  "  chiefest  stay  of  living."  Both  kinds  brought  him  popu- 


-  v_iarc  nan,  juiy   i. 

4  First  pub.    I  $84. 

•'  If  the  Isabel  in  Never  Too  Late  represents  Greene's  wife  Doll,  I  may  he  pardoned  for  con- 
jecturing that  the  Caerbranck  and  Dunecastrum  of  that  story  stand  for  Corby  and  Donington, 
twelve  miles  apart,  in  Lincolnshire,  near  the  Norfolk  line. 

V)l 


398 


Robert    Greene 


larity  and  envy.1  In  July,  1588,  he  was  incorporated  M.A.  at  Oxford.  In 
February,  1589,  this  "arch  play-making  poet"  steps  forrh  in  the  role  of 
patriot  with  his  Spanish  Masquer  ado  ;  soon  after  with  his  Mourning  Garment 
(«?.  R.  November  2,  1590)  in  that  of  moralist.  The  didactic  note  had  been 
already  struck  in  The  Royal  Exchange,  early  in  i  590,  and  the  penitential 
in  the  Farewell  to  Follie  (S.  R.  1587  ;  pub.  1^91  )  ;  but  both  prevail 
in  Never  Too  Late,-  I  590.  The  disposition  to  serve  the  Commonwealth  is 
further  displayed  in  his  series  for  the  exposure  of  "coosnage,"  1591-92. 
Whatever  else  he  had  written  he  now  counts  for  "apples  of  Sodom."  In 
July,  1592,  he3  "  canvazed  "  the  brothers  Harvey  in  his  Quip  for  an  Upstart 
Courtier,  but  of  this  we  have  only  the  eviscerated  remains.  Soon  afterward 
he  indulged  in  that  memorable  surfeit  of  pickled  herring  and  Rhenish  wine. 
The  ensuing  sickness  at  the  shoemaker's  in  Dowgate,  —  Greene's  friendless 
lot,  "  lousie  circumstance,"  mistresse,4  bastard,  and  corpse,  —  Gabriel  Har- 
vey5 has  embalmed  with  the  foul  peculiar  juices  of  his  spite.  Those  last 
weeks  Greene  spent  writing  his  Groatswortb  of  Wit  which  is  partly,  and 
his  Repentance  which  is  wholly,  autobiographical,  to  dissuade  men  from  a  like 
"  carelesse  course  of  life."  He  sent  back  their  son  to  his  wife  ;  and  the  night 
of  his  death  received  "commendations"  from  her  "whereat  he  greatly  re- 
joiced," and  wrote  a  pathetic  farewell.  That  was  September  3,  1592. 
Mrs.  Isam,  his  hostess,  garlanded  the  dead  poet  with  bays  ;  and  he  was 
laid  in  the  New  Churchyard,  near  Bedlam. 

Misapprehensions  concerning  Greene.  —  On  the  title-page  of  Plane- 
tomacbia,  1585,  Greene  subscribes  himself  "Student  in  Phisicke  "  ; 
and  from  this  it  has  been  inferred  by  most  of  his  biographers 
that  he  was  then  studying  medicine.  But  for  Greene,  as  for 
Chaucer  and  Gower,  whom  he  diligently  perused,  '  phisicke  '  some- 
times meant  natural  philosophy,6  and  always  included  a  ground- 

1  See  Prefaces  to  PcrimeJes  (S.  R.  March  29,   1588  )  ;    PanJosto,  pub.   1588  •    Mcnapbon, 
pub.  August  1589  (perhaps  before  July,   1588)  ;   and  Ciceronis  Amor,  pub.   1589.     The  dates 
are  of  historical  importance. 

2  Pbii&mela,  1592,  is  of  earlier  style  and  composition. 

8  As  "  chiefe  agent  of  the  companie  "  of  poets  and  writers  (Lyly,  Nashe,  Greene,  and 
probably  Lodge  and  Peele)  whom  Richard  Harvey  in  his  Lamb  of  GoJ  had  "  mistermed 
piperly  makeplaies  and  make-bates.1'  Nashe,  Strange  Ncives,  etc. 

4  Sister  to  Cutting  Ball,  "  trust  under  a  tree  "  at  Tyburn. 

5  Foure  Letters  and  Certain  Sonnfts,  London,    I  ^92. 

6  4<  Physique  is  ...   to  tec  hen   .    .    .   of  everichon  ''  (herbs,  stones,  etc.), 

"  That  ben  of  bodely  substaunce 
The  nature  and  the  bubstance." 

—  GOWER,  Conf.  Am.,  VII. 


Robert    Greene  399 

ing  in  c  astronomic.' J  The  word  is  here  used  with  reference  to  the 
1  magic  natural '  of  his  subject,  —  the  book  being  a  narrative  dispute 
of  astrological  influences. 

According  to  popular  assertion,  substantiated  by  the  arguments 
of  Dvce,  Fleay,  Grosart,  and  others,  Greene  was  at  one  period  a 
parson.  Careful  investigation  convinces  me  that  this  assertion  is 
untrue.  Our  dramatist  cannot  have  been  the  Robert  Greene  who, 
as  unus  Capellanorum  nostrorum  Capella:  nostrte  Regime,  was  in  1576 
presented  by  Elizabeth  to  the  rectory  of  Walkington  in  Yorkshire ; 
for  at  that  time  he  was  but  a  freshman  at  Cambridge.  Nor  can 
he2  have  been  the  Robert  Greene  who  from  June  19,  1584,  to 
February  17,  1586,  was  Vicar  of  Tollesbury  in  Essex;  because 
according  to  his  own  story,3  that  period  was  covered  by  other  events  : 
to  wit,  the  conviction  of  sin  in  St.  Andrew's  at  Norwich  (while  he 
was  yet  "newly  come  from  Italy,"  end  of  1584  or  beginning  of 
I  585),  a  "  motion  "  which  vastly  amused  his  "copesmates,"  but  lasted 
"no  longer  than  the  present  time"  ;  the  relapse;  the  marriage  "soon 
after  to  a  gentleman's  daughter"  (sometime  in  1585);  the  brief 
sequel  of  "wickedness"  during  which  he  "spent  up"  his  wife's 
marriage-money;  the  "casting  off"  of  the  wife  ;  and  the  return  to 
play-writing  in  London.  This  last,  six  years  before  his  death ; 
therefore  in  1586.  Such  manner  of  life  is  not  that  of  the  Vicar  of 
Tollesbury;  nor  is  the  recital  that  of  Greene  if  he  ever  was  vicar 
of  anything. 

Mr.  Fleay*  attempts  to  identify  Greene,  as  Robert  the  parson, 
with  one  Robert  Persj  or  Rupert  Persten  of  Leicester's  troupe 
acting  between  December,  1585,  and  July,  1587,011  the  Continent. 
There  is,  however,  no  proof  that  Greene  was  with  these  "  instru- 
mentalists and  acrobats  "  ;  nor  is  the  name  Persj  or  Persten,  as  it 
appears  in  the  Danish  and  Saxon  records,  either  the  English  name 
Parson  or  a  translation  of  the  calling  of  parson  into  Danish  or 

1  Chaucer,  Pro/.  C.  T.,  414-420. 

2  As  Dr.  Grosart  thinks  he  was. 

8  In  Grosart  :  XII.  174-179,  Short  Discourse  of  the  Life,  etc.,  which  has  every  mark  of 
authenticity. 

4  Life  of  Sb.t  92,  105;  Hist.  Ssagt,  825  but  cf.  Cohn,  Sbakesp.  in  Germany,  xxi-xxxi 
(1865),  and  Creizenach,  Schauspielf  d,  vn^l.  Kombdiantcn,  ii-iv  (Kiirschner,  Nat.  Litt. 
Bd.  XXIII). 


400  Robert    Greene 

German.  Actor  King  became  Konlng  and  Krnigk,  and  actor  Pope, 
Pape  and  Pabst, — but  Persj,  Percy,  Persten,  or  Preston  was  untrans- 
latable. Indeed,  if  the  argument  proves  anything,  it  proves  too 
much.  For  if  Mr.  Fleay's  Persten  (or  as  he  coerces  it,  Priester) 
is  Greene,  Vicar  of  Tollesbury,  this  Vicar  must  have  been  acting 

>  .     '  O 

abroad  three  months  of  the  period  during  which  he  was  preaching  at 
home;  —  a  dual  activity  terminated,  moreover,  not  by  the  vestry 
of  Tollesbury,  which  would  appear  to  have  enjoyed  this  unusual 
programme,  or  by  the  bishop,  but  by  the  Vicar  himself,  whose 
resignation  is  recorded  as  "  tree  and  spontaneous." 1 

It  is  certainly  safer  to  accept  Greene's  own  story  and  the  pub- 
lishers' records,  which,  taken  together,  show  that  his  marital  estate 
was  a  debauch  with  rare  intervals  of  business  activity.  During  this 
period  Arbasto  and  the  enlarged  Morando  were  registered  and  Planeto- 
rnachta  was  printed. 

A  writer  of  Greene's  self-exhibitive  temper  would  not  have 
hesitated,  and  one  of  his  didactic  tendency  could  not  have  failed, 
to  present  the  world  with  an  account  of  an  episode  which,  if  it 
existed,  was  the  most  sensational  of  his  moral  experiences.  But  in 
none  of  his  writings,  autobiographical,  or  quasi-autobiographical, 
does  Greene  give  even  remote  intimation  of  taking  orders.  On  the 
contrary  he  speaks  as  a  layman,  and  a  very  wicked  layman,  too  ;  as 
one  who  from  infancy  was  bred  in  sin,  and  who  held  aloof  from 
God's  ministers.  So  far  was  he  from  the  possibility  of  orders  that 
when,  in  his  youth,  "  once  and  vet  but  once  "  he  "  sorrowed  for 
his  wickedness  of  life,"  his  comrades  could  conceive  of  no  huger  joke 
in  the  world  than  to  wish  that  he  "  might  have  a  pulpit."  Roberto 
of  the  Groatsworth,  "  whose  life  in  most  part  agreed"  with  his,  was 
never  a  minister,  nor  was  either  of  Greene's  other  understudies, 
Philador  and  Francesco.  In  Greene's  fision,  which,  whether  authentic 
or  not,  is  contemporaneous,  the  advice  given  to  our  dramatist  "  Be  a 
devine,  mv  sonne,"  is  dismissed  as  out  of  the  question,  though  that 
consummation  were  most  devoutly  to  be  desired.  None  of  his  asso- 
ciates of  later  years'-  betrays  acquaintance  with  his  ministerial  career, 

1  Bp.  Grindal's  Register,  r'ol.  225,  as  in  (Jrosurt,  I.   Prefatory  Note. 

2  See    respectively    Hdi'e    ivith     You,  and    Strange    Naves  ,•      To    the    Gent,    readers   of   The 
Repentance,    1592;    A  Knigbfs  Conjuring,  Ch.   IX.  1607  ;    Hierarchic  of  the  Blessed  Angeh, 
1635  ;    Kind-Hart's  Drcamc,-  I  592. 


Robert    Greene  40 1 

not  Nashe  or  Burbye  or  Dekker  or  Heywood  or  Chettle.  None  of 
his  panegyrists.  And  of  his  enemies  not  even  Gabriel  Harvey. 

We  may  therefore  conclude  that  the  famous  passage  in  Aiartine 
Marsixtus  which  (with  a  context  partly  relative  to  Greene)  announces 
that  "  every  red-nosed  minister  is  an  author "  does  not  apply  to 
Greene,  but  to  any  "  unauthorized  author  who  serves  a  drunken 
man's  humor,"  or  that  the  insinuation  has  reference  to  some  sobri- 
quet born  of  Greene's  paroxysms  of  pentitence  and  mourning  pam- 
phlets. And,  indeed,  a  nickname  may  have  attached  itself  to  this 
wayward  child  of  circumstance,  as  early  as  that  critical  period  in 
Norwich  when  his  copesmates  called  him  u  Puritane  and  Presi- 
zian  .  .  .  and  other  such  scoffing  tearmes."  What  more  likely 
than  "  Parson,"  since  they  had  gone  so  far,  Greene  tells  us,  as  to 
wish  him  a  pulpit?  But  if  he  had  a  pulpit,  what  becomes  of  the 
joke?  and  of  his  own  word  —  "the  good  lesson,  went  quite  out  of 
my  remembrance  ...  I  went  forward  obstinately  in  my  misse  "  ? 

As  to  the  manuscript  notes  in  the  1599  copy  of  The  Pinner  of 
IVakefield,  the  first  of  which  states  that  Shakespeare  said  that  the 
play  was  "written  by  ...  a  minister  who  ac[ted]  ye  piners  pt  in  it 
himself,"  and  the  second,  in  another  hand,  that  Juby  said  that  "  ys 
play  was  made  by  Ro.  Gree[ne],"  •  —  it  must  be  remembered  that 
both  attributions  are  hearsay ;  that  both  notes  are  anonymous ; 
that  one  or  both  may  be  fraudulent ;  that  there  is  no  certain  proof 
that  they  were  written  by  contemporaries  ;  and  finally  that,  unless 
their  contents  are  shown  to  be  accurate  as  well  as  authentic,  and 
to  refer  to  the  same  author,  they  do  not  connect  any  Robert  Greene 
with  the  ministry.  Since  our  Greene's  writings  show  that  he  was 
no  minister,  there  is  but  one  hypothesis  upon  which,  assuming  the 
accuracy  and  relevancy  of  both  these  manuscript  notes,  he  can  be 
the  person  indicated;  namely,  that  the  designation,  minister,  used 
by  Shakespeare,  was  a  nickname.  And,  conversely,  Shakespeare's 
remark  can  be  credited  in  its  literal  significance  only  if  the  play  was 
not  by  our  Greene.  In  the  latter  event,  the  attribution  of  author- 
ship to  a  minister,  taken  in  connection  with  Ed.  Juby's  attribution 
to  a  certain  Ro.  Greene,  would  denote  some  parson-playwright  to 
whom  no  other  play  has  been  traced  —  Robert  of  Walkington,  or 
Robert  of  Tollesbury,  or  some  other  of  this  not  unusual  name. 


402  Robert    Greene 

And  in  that  case  it  would  be  easy  to  understand  how  the  name  of 
an  obscure  author,  if  mentioned  by  Shakespeare,  should  have  slipped 
the  memory  of  the  title-page  scribe.  Internal  evidence,  as  will 
later  be  seen,  is  not  conclusive  of  Greene's  authorship  ;  but  even  if 
it  were,  it  would  not  prove  that  he  was  a  minister. 

It  may  be  conceded  that,  like  other  Elizabethan  dramatists,  he 
assumed  a  part  upon  the  stage.  But  that  he  adopted  the  calling,  or 
ever  stood  a  chance  of  enjoying  u  its  damnable  excessive  gains,"  is 
only  less  improbable  than  that  he  was  a  parson.  Dyce's  quotation 
from  Harvey  to  the  effect  that  Greene  was  "  a  player"  misappre- 
hends the  "puissant  epitapher  "  who  was  merely  enumerating  the 
"thousand  crotchets"  that  littered  Greene's  "  wilde  head,  and 
hence  his  stories."  1  None  of  his  contemporaries  hints  that  Greene 
was  an  actor;  none  regards  him  in  that  light.  He  himself  despised 
the  profession. 

In  respect  of  his  relations  with  Shakespeare,  I  cannot  but  feel 
that  he  has  been  harshly  judged.  We  shall  be  justified  in  calling 
the  Shakescene  remarks  unduly  rancorous  when  it  has  been  ascer- 
tained that  the  "  admired  inventions  "  of  Greene  and  of  those  whom 
he  was  addressing  in  the  Groatsworth  had  not  been  borrowed  by  the 
young  actor-plavwright ;  or  that  Greene  should  have  let  himself 
be  plundered  without  protest  by  this  revamper  of  plays  because  the 
revamper  was  destined  some  day  to  be  illustrious,  in  fact  to  be  the 
Shakespeare.  I  have  not  observed  that  dramatists  et  id  omne  genus, 
nowadays,  offer  the  cheek  with  any  more  Christian  grace  than 
characterised  Robert  Greene. 

His  Development  as  a  Dramatist:  Order  of  Plays.-  —  A  painstaking 
investigation  of  the  evidence  leads  me  to  conclude  that  none  of 
the  plays  assigned  to  Greene  was  produced  before  the  end  of  1586, 
or,  probably,  the  beginning  of  158";  that  their  order  is  as  fol- 
lows :  Alpbonsus,  Looking- Glasse,  Orlando,  Friar  Bacon,  James  II'.  ; 
and  that  if  Selimus  and  the  Pinner  are  his,  they  range  respectively 
with  Alpbcinsus  and  ''James. 

1  Dyce,   Account  of  Greene,  pp.   35,  36  ;    and  Harvey's  Foure  Letters,  pp.   9,  25. 

2  Brown  (Grosart's  Gncne,  Vol.    I.,   Introduction,    xi.    et  sty.)  arranges  •    A.,    O.F.,  and 
F.  B.   (  1584-8")  ;    Jt2S.    If.,  and   Pinner  (  1590-91  )  ;    L.  —  G.   (  1591-92  ).       Storojenko 
(Grosart,  I.,  I  67-226)  arranges  :  A.  (after  Tamburl.,  i  587-88  ),  (). ,  and  L.  —  G.  ( i  588-89)  j 
Jas.    If.,   F.  B.,   Pinner  (1589-92). 


Robert    Greene  403 

•  i.  The  earliest  extant  exemplar  of  The  Comical!  Historic  of 
dlphonsus,  King  of  Aragon,  bv  R.  G.,1  and  without  motto,  "  as  it  hath 
bene  sunclrie  times  acted  "  was  "brinted  "  by  Thomas  Creedc,  Lon- 
don, 1599.  The  play  is  generally  supposed  to  have  been  written 
in  emulation  of  the  Tamburlaine^  which  was  on  the  stage  in  i  588,— 
perhaps,  indeed,  as  early  as  the  end  of  I586.2  While  similarity  of 
diction  and  conceit  might  indicate  a  contemporaneous  production, 
the  lines  in  dlphonsus, — 

"  Not  mighty  Tamburlaine, 

Nor  soldiers  trained  up  amongst  the  wars,"  3 

are  proof  presumptive  of  the  priority  of  Marlowe's  play.  Indeed, 
Dr.  Grosart  is  justified  in  asserting  that  "  to  take  jllpbotuus  without 
a  tacit  reference  to  Tamburlaine  is  to  miss  the  entire  impulse  of  its 
writer " ;  for  the  dramatist  appears  to  be  attempting  a  burlesque  ; 
and  the  vainglorious  claim  that  he  makes  for  his  hero4  is  a  mani- 
fest challenge  to  Marlowe  and  that  bombastic  brood.  Greene  may 
have  been  writing  the  play  as  early  as  158";  he  was,  at  any  rate, 
interested  in  the  hero  then,  for  he  mentions  him  in  the  Dedication  to 
The  Garde  of  Fancied  That  the  dlphomus  was  well  known  in  the 
early  spring  of  1589  would  appear  from  an  allusion  in  Pcele's  Fare- 
ivellf  which  couples  it  with  Tamburlaine  so  closely  as  further  to 
suggest  that  it  already  clung  like  a  burr  to  its  magniloquent  prede- 
cessor. Whether  the  series  of  satiric  reprisals  in  which,  between 
1588  and  1590,  Greene  and  Nashc  indulged  at  Marlowe's  expense," 
was  stimulated  by  some  counter-burlesque  of  Alpbonsus  is  uncertain; 
but  that  Marlowe  shortly  before  March  29,  I  588,  had  been  privy 
to  some  public  burlesque  of  a  production  of  Greene's,  may  reason- 
ably be  inferred  from  Greene's  preface  to  the  Perymedes  of  that  date. 

1  No   mention  of  the  M./1.,  which   is  given   when   his   name   is   attached    to   other   plays. 
sllpbonsus  is  neither  mentioned  by  Henslowe,  nor  recorded  >S'.  R 

2  Acted  by  the  Admiral's  men,   158",  according  to  I-'leay.      Kf>.  to  Mi-nafb^n,  which  refers 
to  it,  ma\  have  been  written  as  early  as  i  587  (  Storojenko  ). 

3  Act.   IV.  ;   the  lines  1578,   15*9  do  not  look  like  additions. 

«  Pr<,l,,Kur  to  Alfl.,  1.  IS.  i  Ward,   K.  I).  L.   I.   324  n. 

6  'A  tbe  Ftimoui  and  Fortunate  Generals:  "  Afabomtt'i  f>oiu  and  mighty  Tamberlaine  " 
(see  Fleay,  Lift  t,f  Kbaktsf. ,  pp.  96-97). 

"  See  I'rrymfJfs,  .Meriafiboii,  Anat^mif  iif  .Y''>v;i/mV,  and  the  o|H-ning  of  Grfent's  t'iuon 
(written  before  I  •()-  ; . 


404  Robert    Greene 

For  there  we  learn  that  two  "  gentlemen  poets  "  had  recently  caused 
two  actors  to  make  a  mockery  of  his  motto  Omne  tulit  punctum, 
because  his  verse  tell  short  of  the  bombast  and  blasphemy  with 
which  Marlowe  captivated  the  vulgar.  If  it  was  the  verse  of  the 
Alpbonsus  that  was  derided  by  these  "  madmen  of  Rome,"  we  have 
here  a  date  before  which  the  play  had  been  both  acted  and  bur- 
lesqued. Now,  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  our  earliest  copy  of 
Alpbonsus  (1599)  has  neither  motto  nor  colophon.  This  is  strange, 
for  in  all  other  respects  the  edition  is  uniform  with  that  of  "James  IT., 
which  had  been  brought  out  by  the  same  publisher,  Creede,  only 
the  year  before,  with  Greene's  Omne  tulit  punctual  upon  its  title- 
page.  In  fact,  all  other  plays  written  by  Greene  alone,  and  bearing 
his  name,  have  a  motto  of  some  kind.  One  may  naturally  query 
whether  it  was  to  Creede's  advantage  to  dissociate  this  particular 
play  from  some  eleven  or  twelve  years'  old  derision  •,  or,  whether  he 
was  following,  without  definite  purpose,  the  policy  of  some  previous 
edition,  now  lost,  which  likewise  had  omitted  the  motto. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is,  in  the  preface  of  March  29,  1588, 
undoubted  allusion  l  to  Greene  and  Lodge's  Looking-Glasse,  which, 
as  will  presently  be  shown,  was  written  before  June,  1587.  The 
jflphonsus  must  be  assigned  to  a  still  earlier  date,  because,  in  its  pro- 
logue,2 it  gives  evidence  of  priority  to  Greene's  other  efforts  in 
serious  or  heroic  style.  This  conclusion  is  confirmed  bv  an  exam- 
ination of  the  play.  The  copious  crude  employment  of  mytho- 
logical lore,  the  creaking  mechanism  of  the  plot,  the  subordination 
of  vital  to  spectacular  qualities,  betray  an  inexperience  not  mani- 
fest in  Greene's  other  dramatic  output.  Moreover,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  our  edition  of  Alphonsus  appears  to  preserve  the  details 
of  the  author's  holograph,  the  versification  makes  a  clumsier  show- 
ing than  in  the  rest  of  his  plays.  The  lines  arc  frequently 
rhymed,  sometimes  within  the  speeches,  but  more  often  in  a  per- 
functory fashion  at  speech-ends.  And,  though  this  practice  wanes 
as  the  play  proceeds,  the  verses  are  throughout  more  frequently  end- 

1  "The  mad  preest  of  tin-  sonne." 

2  Venus's  Hints,  40-4,,  which  would   place   this   play  after   a   series   of  love  pamphlets,  and 
before   the   treatment   of  graver  themes.      See   Simpson,   2  :    352.       Mr.    Kleay    unhesitatingly 
assigns  its  production  to  15X7   (Life  '>f  Si.ikesp.,  pp.  96,  97). 


Robert    Greene  405 

stopped,  and  the  rhythm  more  mechanical,  than  in  the  other  dramas. 
Between  two-thirds  and  three-quarters  of  the  lines  have  the  monoto- 
nous caesura  at  the  end  of  the  second  foot  •,  and  of  the  lyric  ca-- 
surne,  which  should  par  excellence  lend  variety  to  the  verse,  abcut 
eleven-twelfths  fall  in  the  middle  of  the  third  foot.  We  may 
indeed  say  that  in  four-fifths  of  the  lines  these  sources  of  same- 
ness prevail.  Of  prose  there  is  no  sign.  Both  in  material  and 
style  the  play  is  inelastic,  only  too  easily  open  to  attack.  That 
Greene  should  prefix  the  Oinne  tulit  punctiim  of  his  popular  prose 
romances  was  natural,  hut  it  was  also  courting  the  attack  ot 
Marlowe,  Kyd,  or  any  gentleman-poets  derisively  inclined. 

2.  A  Looking-Glasse  for  London  and  England  made  by  Thomas 
Lodge,  Gentleman,  and  Robert  Greene,  /;/  Artibus  Magister,  is 
called  by  Professor  Brown  the  "  finest  and  last  "  of  the  plays  in  which 
Greene  had  a  hand,  and  is  assigned  to  a  date  "  after  Lodge's  return 
from  Cavendish's  expedition  in  1591."  This  conjecture  may  at  once 
be  dismissed,1  for  that  expedition  did  not  start  till  August  26,  1591  ; 
none  of  its  ships  returned  before  June  1 1,  1593  >  and,  by  that  time, 
Greene  was  dead.  The  play  was  registered  in  May,  1594,  and 
our  earliest  exemplar  (Creede)  was  printed  in  the  same  year. 
Henslowe  records  the  presentation  of  the  play,  but  not  as  new, 
March  8,  1591—92.  We  have  abundant  proof  of  its  popularity. 
Therefore,  since  only  four  representations  are  recorded  during  the 
remainder  of  that  season,  which  lasted  till  June  22,  I592,2  it  must 
have  had  its  run  at  an  earlier  date.  Spencer's  line  in  The  Tears  of 
the  Muses,  1591,  about  the  "pleasing  Alcon  "  has  been  regarded  as 
an  allusion  to  Lodge's  authorship  of  that  character  in  the  Looking- 
Glasse  ;  and  with  some  show  of  reason,  for  nearly  all  the  speeches 
of  Alcon  are  distinctively  the  work  of  Lod«;e.3  But  an  earlier  remi- 


1  Sec  for  this,  Grosart,   Intrsd.  xxv.  xli.  ;    Simpson,  2  :    382  ;   and  Ward. 

~  Cf.  The  Knack,  etc.,  which  as  a  "  new  "  play  was  acted  thrice  in  the  fortnight  (Hensloivc}. 

3  Fleay  assigns  "  most  and  best  "  of  the  play  to  Lodge.  Grosart  disagrees,  but  does  not 
specify.  A  comparative  investigation  satisfies  me  that  only  the  following  passages  can  be  assigned 
to  Lodge:  Sc.  iii.  I  Dy.,  pp.  I2O— 122;  Gros.,  11.  319-480)  Usurer,  Thrasyb.,  Alcon,  as  far 
as  Enter  Remilia ;  Sc.  v.  (Dy.,  pp.  124-126;  Gros.,  11.  654-868)  Alcon,  Thr.,  Lawy., 
Judge,  Usur.,  as  far  as  Enter  Adam  ;  Sc.  vii.  (  Dy.,  pp.  129,  130;  Gros.,  11.  10-0-1169) 
Jonas,  Angel,  Merchants,  etc.  ;  Sc.  x.  (Dy.,  pp.  134,  135  ;  Gros.,  11.  1512-1604),  Mer- 
chant>,  etc.  ;  Sc.  xiii.  (Dy.,pp.  138-139;  Gros.,  11.  1900-2020)  Thr. ,  Alcon,  etc. — Sc.  viii. 


406  Robert    Greene 

niscence  of  the  play  may  be  found  in  Greene's  mention  of  Ninevie 
and  Jonas  in  the  dedication  and  epilogue  of  the  Mourning  Garment, 
1590.  Since  it  appears,  moreover,  from  a  passage  in  Scillaes  Meta- 
morphosis, that  Lodge  had  renounced  play-writing  as  early  as  1589,* 
Storojenko  and  Grosart  date  the  composition  of  Looking-Glasse 
between  the  close  of  1588  and  the  summer  ot  1589.  I  am  sure 
that  the  date  was  earlier  still ;  for,  since  the  Metamorphosis  followed 
immediately  upon  Lodge's  return  from  a  voyage  with  Captain 
Clarke  to  Tercera  and  the  Canaries,  any  such  playwriting  as  that 
of  the  Looking-Glasse  must  have  been  done  before  the  departure  of 
this  expedition.  According  to  Mr.  Lee,2  the  Expedition  sailed 
"  about  I  588."  Now  the  play  contains  no  allusion  to  the  Armada  ; 
it  is,  therefore,  antecedently  improbable  that  it  was  written  in  1588 
later  than  the  2^th  of  May.  And  since  a  modernized  morality  of 
God's  wrath  impending  over  London,  if  written  in  that  year, 
could  not  have  failed  to  echo  the  first  mutterings  of  the  Spanish 
thunderstorm,  I  am  led  to  fix  the  composition  before  June,  1587, 
when  Philip  and  Sixtus  concluded  their  treaty  against  England. 

The  date  of  first  presentation  must  have  been  appreciably  before 
March  29,  1588,  for  a  character,  the  'priest  of  the  sun,'  which 
figured  in  the  Looking-Glasse,  but  "in  no  other  early  play,"3  is 
mentioned  in  the  introduction  to  Pervmedes,  alreadv  cited.  Here, 
Greene  asserts  that  even  if  his  verse  did  not  always  "  jet  upon  the 

(Dy.,  p.  130;  Gros.,  11.  1180-1363)  Alcon,  etc.,  to  Exit  Samia,  shows  signs  ofLodge  prin- 
cipally, but  some  of  the  lines  are  Greene's.  In  general,  each  of  the  prophetic  interludes  is  by 
the  author  of  the  scene  preceding.  E.g.  11.  1591-1653,  Jonas,  Angel,  Oseas,  by  Lodge. 
From  1.  2020  all  is  by  Greene  ;  therefore  most  of  Jonas. 

1  He  vows : — 

"  To  write  no  more  of  that  whence  shame  doth  grow 
Or  tie  my  pen  to  penny-knaves  delight, 
But  live  with  fame  and  so  for  fame  to  write." 

2  Nut.  Di<t.   Biog.,  art.  Lodge. 

3  Fleay,  Life  of  Shake  sf>.t  p.  98.      Mr.   Fleay,  conjecturing  that  Lodge  was  associated  with 
Marlowe  in  the  attack  upon  Greene's  unsuccessful  heroic  play,  and  that  Lodge  is  satirized  under 
the  (Per\mciJrs)  mention  of  the  "mad  preest,1'  assigns  the  L.-G.  to  a  later  daiv.      But  we  rind 
no  evidence  of  coolness  between  Lodge  and  Greene  during  1588  and  1589.      On   the  contrary, 
Lodge  prefixes  to  the  Span.  Masc/ucr.  (S.  R.  February  I,  1589),  verses  calling  Greene  his  </G«* 
ami  and  compagnon  dc  Dicux,  and  rejoices  to  be  associated  with  his  fame.      The  friendship  was 
still  fresh  when  Greene  died.      Lodge  was  not  the  "mad  preest."      Nor  can  1  adopt  Mr.  Fleay's 
other  conjecture  (Biog.   Cbron.  II.   31  )  that  the  "  preest  "  was  Hieronimo. 


Robert    Greene  407 

stage  in  tragicall  buskins,"  or  his  "everie  worde "  blaspheme,  he 
could,  an  he  pleased,  fill  the  mouth  "  like  the  fa-burden  of  Bo-Bell, 
daring  God  out  of  heaven  with  that  Atheist  Tamburlan  "  ;  and, 
by  way  of  proof,  he  sets  side  by  side  with  Tamburlan,  the  impious 
ranting  of  his  own  "  mad  preest  of  the  Sonne."  The  reference  is, 
of  course,  to  the  scene  in  the  Looking-Glasse,  where  the  mitred 
priests  of  the  sun,  "  carrying  fire  in  their  hands,"  hail  Rasni  as  a 
u  deitie  "  ; J  and  he  assumes  that  the  mention  of  one  of  the  char- 
acters will  indicate  the  play,  —  a  justifiable  expectation  if  the  play 
had  been  before  the  public  for  nine  or  ten  months. 

Though  affected  by  its  moral  configuration,  the  Looking-Glasse 
is  well  constructed.  In  plot,  characterization,  manners  (especially 
those  of  low  life),  in  worldly  wisdom  and  fervour,  it  leaves  Siphon- 
sits  far  behind.  The  subtler  handling  of  classical  adornment  and 
the  bubble  of  the  humour  would,  of  themselves,  justifv  us  in  assign- 
ing it  to  the  same  period  with  Orlando  and  Friar  Bacon.  The 
advancing  maturity  is  manifest  also  in  its  verse  and  prose.  I  do 
not  attribute  Greene's  improvement  in  blank  verse  entirely  to 
Lodge's  cooperation;  for  Lodge's  verse  in  the  Chill  War,  1587, 
was  not  markedly  easier  than  that  of  the  Alpbonsus,  and  his  verse  in 
this  play  2  is  but  a  trifle  more  elastic  than  in  the  Chill  Jl^ar.  Tak- 
ing at  random  fifty-seven  of  Greene's  verses,3  I  find  that  some  fifty- 
two  avoid  the  monotone,  and,  of  these,  no  fewer  than  twenty-five 
escape  the  penthimimeral  cssura  as  well.  In  other  words,  five- 
sixths  of  the  rhythms  are  free,  and  one-half  of  these  skilfully  varied. 
In  the  prophetic  verses  the  monotone  is  properly  more  prevalent. 
About  thirty  per  cent  of  Greene's  have  it.  But  even  there  almost 
half  of  the  'free'  rhythms  display  artistic  handling.  Speech-end 
rhythms  are  fewer  than  in  /flphonsus  ;  rhyme,  indeed,  is  altogether 
Ir-ss  in  evidence  —  except  in  the  prophetic  rhapsodies.  Lodge's 
lines  for  Oseas  rhyme,  however,  more  than  Greene's  for  Jonas. 
Not  only  is  the  proportion  of  prose  larger  than  in  any  other  of 

1  The  direction    A  band,  etc.,  might   well    follow  close   upon  "tempt   you   me?"   of  line 
1764.      The  passage,  11.  1764-1782,  interrupts  a   scene   otherwise   sufficient   to   itself,  with   a 
pageant  of  Mj|>ernumcraries  whose  utterance  is  a  veritable  "fa-burden."      The  bit  looks  almost 
like  an  afterthought,  aping  Marlowan  style  ;    but  it  is  manifest  Greene,  not  Lodge. 

2  For  the  distribution  of  authorship,  see  note  3,  p.  405. 
8  Lines  80-1 16,  481-508. 


40 8  Robert    Greene 

Greene's  plays,  —  a  feature  which  is,  perhaps,  due  to  the  fact  tha> 
each  collaborator  had  his  own  set  of  mechanicals  to  exploit,  —  but  the 
style  of  it  is  more  conversational  than  in  any  preceding  English  play. 

3.  Our  earliest  impression  of  Orlando  Furioso,  One  of  the  Twelve 
Peeres  of  France,  "  as  it  was  playd  before  the  Queenes  Maiestie," 
is  published  by  Burbye,  1594.  It  had  been  entered  for  Danter, 
December  7,  1593,  but  was  transferred  to  Burbye  on  the  ensuing 
May  28.  He  issued  a  second  edition  in  I599-1  Greene  was 
accused  in  I5922  of  having  sold  the  play  to  the  Lord  Admiral's 
men  while  the  Queen's  company,  to  which  he  had  previously  dis- 
posed of  it,  was  "  in  the  country."  Now  the  Queen's  men  had 
acted  at  court  for  the  last  time,  December  26,  1591  ;  and  they 
did  not  reappear  in  London  till  April,  I593-3  But  tne  Admiral's, 
meanwhile  (February,  1592),  had  entered  into  a  temporary  alliance 
with  Lord  Strange's,4  through  Henslowe  and  Edw.  Alleyn  ;  and 
under  the  auspices  of  the  latter  company  almost  immediately 
(February  21)  the  Orlando  was  acted  in  one  of  Henslowe's  theatres.5 
It  was  already  an  old  play  ;  and  Henslowe  records  no  later  perform- 
ance. During  the  same  period  three  or  four  other  plays  formerly 
belonging  to  the  Queen's  passed  into  the  hands  of  Lord  Strange's 
company.6  The  date  of  the  second  sale  of  Orlando  would  accord- 
ingly seem  to  have  been  during  January  or  February,  1592.  It 
appears,  then,  that  up  to  December  26,  1591,  it  belonged  to  the 
Queen's  men  ;  and  it  had  probably  been  presented  at  court  by  them, 
for  its  classical  and  Italian  features  were  evidently  from  the  first 
designed  to  suit  her  Majesty's  taste.7 

That  the  play  was  written  later  than  July  30,  1588,  may  be 
deduced  from  a  mention  (11.  89—95)  of  the  "rebate"  of  "mightie 
Fleetes  "  which  "Came  to  subdue  my  Hands  to  their  king;"  for 
the  allusion  to  the  Armada  is  historically  minute  (note  the  conjunc- 
tion of  '  Portingale  '  with  '  Spaniard  '  in  reference  to  the  start  from 
Lisbon),  the  sequence  does  not  savour  of  afterthought  or  actor's 
clap-trap,  and  the  theme  receives  attention  in  other  parts  of  the 

1  Grosart,  XIII.  vii.,  and  Arber's  S.   R.  there  quoted.       3  Fleay,   Hist.  Stage,  pp.  76—82. 

2  By  the  author  of  The  Defence  of  Connycatcbing,  4  Lee,  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.   37. 

5  Probably  the  Rose  ;  Henslowe's  Diary.      For  Alleyn's  copy  of  the  title  role  see  Dyce,  ed.  0.  F . 

6  Fleay,  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.   1 08.  7  So  Ulrici  and  Storojenko- 


Robert    Greene  409 

play.1  Now,  between  the  "rebate"  of  the  Armada  and  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  Queen's  men  from  London  that  company  acted 
at  court  ten  times;2  and  upon  at  least  one  of  these  occasions  I 
conclude  that  the  Orlando  was  played.  During  the  year  that 
followed  the  Armada  there  arc  but  two  such  occasions  on  record, 
December  26,  1588,  and  February  9,  1589;  and  of  the  latter  the 
notice  is  open  to  question.3  In  any  case  the  former  is  more  likely 
to  be  the  date  of  the  presentation  of  Orlando]  for  the  reference  to 
the  Armada,  and  the  championing  of  Elizabeth  under  the  figure 
of  Angelica,  would  be  the  policy  of  a  court  play  acted  on  the  St. 
Stephen's  day  following  the  Spanish  defeat.  If  this  was  the  play, 
we  may  be  sure  that  it  won  her  Majesty's  approval  ;  and  that  the 
dramatist  seized  the  opportunity  to  further  his  good  fortune.  And 
that  is  precisely  what  Greene  did.  In  February,  1589,  he  brought 
out  his  Spanish  Masquerado,  which  was  hailed  with  such  enthusiasm 
that  his  friend  Lodge  declared  that  the  name  of  Greene  was  become 
a  terror  to  the  gem  seditieux,  that  his  laurel  was  deathless,  and  that 
from  a  mortal  he  had  become  a  companion  of  the  gods.4  Now 
I  incline  to  think  that  the  success  ot  Orlando  contributed  to  this 
popularity ;  there  is  certainly  not  enough  of  political  or  literary 
worth  in  the  Masquerado  alone  to  account  for  it.  There  is  further 
reason  for  dating  the  Orlando  before  1590  if  the  resemblances 
between  it  and  the  Old  Wives  Tale'*  are  due,  as  I  think  they  are, 
to  Peele's  acquaintance  with  the  former.  And  if,  in  his  Farnvell, 
the  same  poet  is  alluding  to  our  play,  under  the  title  of  Charlemagne^ 
—  which,  considering  Orlando's  frequent  brag  of  kinship  with  the 
emperor,  is  not  unlikely,  —  the  play  must  have  been  acted  before 
the  spring  of  1589.  That  Greene  was  occupied  with  the  Orlando  at 
a  still  earlier  date  would  appear  from  his  repeating  in  it  no  less  than 
five  of  the  character-names  which  he  had  used  in  one  of  the  stories 

1  E.g.,  Orlando's  espousal  of  Angelica's  cause  and  his  challenge  to  Oliver  (11.  1485-1486)  : 

"  Yet  for  I  see  my  Princesse  is  ahusde, 

By  new-come  straglers  from  a  forren  coast." 

2  1588,  Dec.  26;    1589,  Feb.  9  (?),  Dec.   26;    I  $90,  Mar.  i,  Dec.  26;    1591,  Jan.   I, 
3,  6;    Feb.   14,  Dec.  26.      Fleay,  Hist.  Stage,  pp.  76-80. 

3  The  date  is  assigned  also  to  the  Admiral's  men.  *  Lodge's  prefatory  Sonnet 
6  The".'  Sacrapant '  of  both  ;  cf.  also  O.  F.  11.  73-76  with  0.  W.   T.  11.  808-8  li. 

6  So  Collier,  Memoirs  of  Alleyn  ;    Fleay,  Sbakcspcaret  p.  96. 


410  Robert    Greene 

of  the  Perymedes.1  Nor  does  the  tracing  of  certain  resemblances  to 
their  common  source  in  the  epos  lessen  the  general  probability  that 
Greene's  story  and  play  were  written  at  approximately  the  same 
period  ;  the  latter  following,  as  the  former  had  preceded,  the  summer 
of  1588.  Mr.  Fleay  would,  indeed,  push  the  date  back  to  1587 
"  when  the  Admiral's  men  re-opened  after  the  plague,"  2  and  Pro- 
fessor Brown  sets  it  with  that  of  Sllpbonsus  and  Bacon,  between  1584 
and  1587  ;3  but  I  do  not  think  that  the  contents  warrant  either  of 
these  conclusions. 

Though  the  Orlando  must  be  of  later  date  than  the  dlpbonsusf  it 
betrays  the  influence  of  the  still  earlier  Tamburlaine,  But  it  is  more 
than  a  sensational  or  spectacular  play  ;  it  is  a  parody  of  the  ranting 
"mad  plays"  which  were  then  the  rage.  Numerous  characteristics 
which  appear  to  some  critics  to  be  detects  of  construction  are  proof 
of  this.  Orlando's  sudden  insanity  and  the  ridiculously  inadequate 
occasion  of  it,  the  headlong  denouement,  the  farcical  technique,  the 
mock-heroic  atmosphere,  the  paradoxical  absence  of  pathos,  the 
absurdly  felicitous  conclusion,  —  all  seemingly  unwitting,  —  are 
purposive  and  satirical.  Of  such  a  burlesque  the  author  of  The 
Spanish  Tragedy^  perhaps  of  the  pre-Shakespearian  Hamlet,  may 
have  been  the  butt.  Greene  and  Nashe  had  no  affection  for  Kyd. 
The  raving  and  bombast  of  this  play  —  the  stuff,  too,  that  the  actor 
Alleyn  injected  —  suggest  a  parody  of  Kyd;  and  the  dates  accord. 
At  anv  rate  I  think  it  likely  that  the  Orlando^  was  produced  while 
the  pre-Shakespearian  Hamlet  was  fresh  ;  and  this  consideration 
also  looks  toward  1588. 

iVlany  similarities  of  style  may  be  pointed  out  between  Orlando 

1  Dr.  Ward  has   mentioned   the  '  Sacrapant '  ;   but  even  more  striking   is   the  appearance  in 
Perymctics'  Tale  of  the  Third  Nights  Exercise  not  only  of  '  Melissa'  and  her  cousin  '  Angelica,' 
but  of  '  Brandamant '   and   '  Rosilius,'  who  at  once  suggest  the   Brandimart  and  Rosillion  of 
Orlando. 

2  Life  of  Shakespeare,  p.  96. 

3  Grosart,  I.  xxvi. 

4  Sec  above,  p.  404. 

6  Between  15X4  and  11588  (see  Induction  to  Earth.  Fayrr}.  Maybe  as  early  as  1583- 
1587  (S chick,  iS/wn.  Tnig.). 

6  Note  the  frequent  calls  for  "revenge"  5  and  cf.  the  "Hamlet,  revenge!"  a  cant 
phrase  in  I  5X8-89.  firosart  gives  reason  for  believing  that  the  Menaphon  first  appeared 
before  July,  1588  (Greene,  I.  104).  In  the  Epistle  prefixed  to  it,  Nashe  ridiculed  the 
Hamlet. 


Robert    Greene 

and  other  of  Greene's  productions  during  1588  and  1589.! 
resemblances  to  Friar  Bacon  not  merely  in  diction,  imagery,  and 
allusion,2  but  in  quality  of  verse,  are  numerous.  In  respect  of  this 
last  the  plays  may  be  considered  together  since  they  are  of  a  piece. 
They  were  apparently  written  within  a  year  of  each  other,  both 
with  a  view  to  presentation  at  Court. 

4.  The  earliest  impression  of  The  Honorable  Historic  of  frier  Bacon 
and  frier  Bongay  (as  it  was  plaid  by  her  Maiesties  servants)  is  of 
1594,  and  was  printed  for  Edward  White,  in  whose  name  (substi- 
tuted for  Adam  Islip's,  erased)  it  had  been  entered,  S.  R.  May  14, 
of  the  same  year.3  The  earliest  record  of  its  presentation  is  Hens- 
lowe's  of  1591-92  :  "  Rd  at  fryer  bacone,  the  19  of  febrary,  satter- 
daye  .  .  .  xvijs  iij.d"  The  play  is  first  in  the  list  of  those  performed 
by  "  my  Lord  Strange's  men  "  ;  but  is  not  marked  "  new."  It  is, 
however,  a  drawing  play  :  Strange's  men  act  it  about  once  every 
three  weeks,  between  February  19  and  May  6;  and  once  a  week, 
between  the  ensuing  January  10  and  January  30;  while  Queen's 
and  Sussex  act  it  twice  in  an  engagement  of  a  week  beginning 
April  i,  1593—94.  It  must  have  preceded  the  anonymous  play 
Faire  Em,  the  Miller's  Daughter  of  Manchester,  which  imitates  it4  — 
perhaps  with  ironic  intent.  Indeed,  Bacon  would  seem  to  have  been 
acted  as  much  as  twelve  months  before  Faire  Em  appeared.  For 
in  Greene's  Epistle  (about  the  middle  of  1591)  prefixed  to  the 
Farewell  to  Follie,  where  he  reproaches  the  imitating  dramatist  with 
general  lack  of  invention  and  with  profane  borrowing  from  the 
Scriptures,  he  further  twits  him  with  having  consumed  "a  whole 
year"  in  "enditing"  his  foolish  and  inartistic  play.5  That  is  to 
say,  a  whole  year  from  the  production  of  the  play  which  it  so  evi- 

1  Cf.  O.  F.  11.   83,    84,   with    Tullie's  Lo-ve  (1589),  "one   orient   margarite  richer  than 
those  which  Czsar  brought,"  etc.;   and  0.  F.  11.  461,  462,  with  N.  T.  L.  (published  1590): 
"  If  the  Cobler  hath  taught  thee  to  say  A-vc  C<esar." 

2  E.g.,    Helen's    "scape"  —  0.    F.    1.    176,    F.B.    VI.    32;    "  Gihon,"    etc.  —  0.  F. 
i.  47,  F.  B.  XVI.  66;   "  Demogorgon, "  etc.  —  0.  F.  11.   1287,  1411,  and  F.  B.  XI.  108  ; 
"Mars's  paramour"  —O.F.  1.   1545,  F.  B.  XIII.  47. 

8  Arber's  Transcript,  II.  649. 

*  Bernhardi,  Greene's  Lebtn  u.  Sebriften,  p.  40;  Storojenko  in  Grosart,  I.  253.  Cf. 
Greene's  Fair  M.,  the  Keeper's  Daughter  of  Freshly  field,  "the  proxy-wooing,"  etc. 

5  "  O,  tis  a  jollie  matter  when  a  man  hath  a  familiar  stile  and  can  endite  a  whole  ycare  and 
never  be  beholding  to  art  ?  but  to  bring  Scripture  to  prove  anything  he  says  ...  is  no  small 
piece  of  tunning."  (Grosart,  IX.  233.) 


412  Robert    Greene 

dently  imitated.  Now,  what  was  the  date  of  Faire  Em  ?  If,  as 
Professor  Schick  1  points  out,  its  main  source  was  Jacques  Yvers's 
Printemps  d1  Iver,  it  would  probably  follow  the  fresh  editions  of  that 
book  of  1588  and  1589.  And  it  did.  I  place  its  date  between 
that  of  Greene's  Address  to  the  Gentlemen  Schollers  prefixed  to  the 
Mourning  Garment  and  that  of  the  Address  prefixed  to  his  Farewell. 
For  in  the  former  he  undertakes  to  forestall,  in  general,  the  "  fooles  " 
who  may  "  scoffe  "  at  his  repentance,  and  in  the  latter  while  he  makes 
a  show  of  ignoring  the  "  asses  "  that  "  strike  "  at  him  (i.e.  at  his 
Mourning  Garment}  he  specifies  one  u  ass  "  who  may  be  expected 
to  flout  his  Farewell^  viz.,  the  author  of  Faire  Em,  —  that  being 
indicated  by  quotations.  In  other  words  the  Faire  Em  is  to  be 
dated  between  November  2,  1590  (when  the  Mourning  Garment 
was  registered),2  and  the  middle  of  1591  (when  the  Fareiuell  with 
this  prefatory  Address}  appeared.3  Since  the  "blasphemous  rhetoricke" 
of  Faire  Em  was  well  known  when  Greene  criticised  it,  we  may 
suppose  that  the  play  had  been  in  existence  since  November  or 
December,  1590.  And  if  its  author  had  been  "a  whole  year 
enditing  "  this  imitation  of  Friar  Bacon,  Friar  Bacon  must  have  been 
a  notable  play  in  November  or  December,  1589.  But  if  Englands 
Mourninge  Gowne,  which  was  registered  July  I,  1590,  be  Greene's 
Mourning  Garment  under  another  name,4  then  Faire  Em  may  have 
appeared  as  early  as  July  or  August  of  the  same  year;  and  Friar 
Bacon,  preceding  Faire  Em  by  a  twelvemonth,  might  be  dated  July  or 
August,  1589.  Even  if  we  do  not  strictly  construe  Greene's 
u  whole  year,"  we  must  allow  some  such  opportunity  for  the  vogue 
of  Friar  Bacon,  and  for  the  composition,  presentation,  and  vogue  of 
Faire  Em,  before  the  publication  of  Greene's  retort  in  the  1591 
edition  of  the  Farewell  to  Follie.  Hence  the  period  between  Julv 
and  the  end  of  1589  will  probably  cover  the  production  of  Fnai 
Bacon;  but  the  latter  limit  might  include  the  spring  of  1590. 

Mr.    Fleay,0    reasoning    from    the    insertion    of    Greene's   longer 
motto    as    colophon    to    the     1594    exemplar,    places    Friar  Bacon 

1  Spanish  Tragedy,  Preface,  xxvi. 

2  Arher,  and  Storojenko  in  Grosart,  I.    119. 

3  Storojenko,  as  above,  I.  2.35. 
*  Wani,  0.  E.  D.  cxix. 

0  1  or  Mr.   Fleay's  arguments,  see  Ward's  0.   E.  D.  cxliii-cxliv. 


Robert   Greene  4 1 3 

earlier  than  the  Menaphon  (S.  R.  August  23,  1589),  in  which  he  says 
Greene's  shorter  motto  l  is  first  used.  Of  the  validity  of  this  test  I 
am  not  convinced.  Much  more  convincing  is  the  argument  based 
by  the  same  indefatigable  scholar  upon  a  date  suggested  within  the 
drama.  St.  James's  Day,  July  25,  is  mentioned  (Sc.  i.)  as  falling  on 
a  Friday.  Mr.  Fleay  insists  that  in  such  cases  dramatic  authors 
used  the  almanac  for  the  current  year;  and  he  shows  that  1589  is 
the  only  year  ot  such  coincidence  that  will  meet  the  conditions  of 
this  play.  Since  the  attribution  of  the  exact  day  of  the  week  to  a 
movable  feast  is  more  likely  to  follow  than  to  precede  the  obser- 
vance, I  should  regard  July  25,  1589,35  the  limit  before  which  the 
Baton  was  not  finished.  Now,  not  only  the  eulogy  of  Elizabeth  at 
the  end,  but  the  euphuistic  and  classical  style  of  the  play,  shows 
that  it  was  intended  for  presentation  at  court.  The  only  dates 
within  the  limits  above  prescribed  on  which  the  Queen's  men  played 
before  her  Majesty  were  December  26,  1589,  and  March  I,  1590. 
I  lean  to  the  former,  St.  Stephen's  Day,  as  that  on  which  Friar 
Bacon  was  performed. 

The  relation  of  this  play  to  Dr.  Faustus  throws  additional  light 
upon  the  question  under  discussion.  We  must  first  eliminate  the 
assumption  that  Marlowe's  "wall  of  brass"2  was  borrowed  from 
Friar  Bacon.  The  sources  of  the  conception  were  common  to 
both  playwrights  :  the  Famous  Historie  of  frier  Bacon,  a  story-book 
popular  at  the  time,  and  "  the  tradition  already  borrowed  from 
Giraldus  Cambrensis  by  Spenser."3  And  it  is  evident  that  Mar- 
lowe drew  the  scene  where  Robin  conjures  with  one  of  Faustus's 
books  directly  from  the  story-book,  not  at  all  from  Greene's  play.4 
I  agree  with  Dr.  Ward  that  Greene's  play  was  suggested  by  Mar- 
lowe's, and  that  "  it  is  hardly  too  great  an  assumption  to  regard 
Bacon's  victory  over  Vandermast  as  a  cheery  outdoing  by  genuine 
English  magic  of  the  pretentious  German  article  in  which  Faustus 
was  the  representative  traveller."  Greene's  plav  is  a  romantic  but 

1  Dropping  the  c/ui  miscuir,  etc. 

-  I.  8f>.      See  Ward,  0.   E.  D.,  and  O.  Ritter,  F.  K.  and  /•'.  //.   (/)/».  Thorn,  1886). 
3  F.  i^  III.   3.    10  (  pul>.    1590,  but  privately  circulated  as  early  as  i  58-  ). 

*  W.  must   be  mistaken  when  he  refers  Scene  xv.  of  Bacon  to  Chaps.   XII.,  XIV'.,  of  the 
story-book.       Tor  the  Miles  of  the  play  does  no  conjuring  ;   and  the  devil  who  carries  him  oti  is 
the  instrument  of  Bacon's  vengeance. 


4 1 4  Robert    G?~ee?ie 

humorous,  sometimes  burlesque,  treatment  of  a  theme  like  Mar- 
lowe's, but  familiar  to  the  audience,  and  attractive  because  domestic. 
It  may,  indeed,  be  surmised  that  some  scenes  in  Friar  Bacon  are 
parodies  of  their  pompous  analogues  in  Dr.  Faustus.1  I  think  it 
has  not  been  noticed  that  in  the  title  of  Greene's  plav  we  have  a 
clue  to  his  intention  :  the  '  Honorable  Historic'  is  in  evident  con- 
trast with  the  'Tragical  Historic'  of  Dr.  Faustus.  For  the  word 
'  honorable  '  was  not  derived  from  the  title  of  the  story-book.  That 
is  a  'Famous  Historic.'  If  he  had  acted  in  accordance  with  cus- 
tom, Greene  might  have  replaced  '  famous  '  bv  '  comical,'  to  indi- 
cate the  fortunate  ending  of  his  fable.  No  other  drama  that  I 
know  of,  up  to  1589,  had  been  denominated  an  'honorable'  his- 
tory. But,  in  this  case,  Greene  had  every  provocation  to  empha- 
size the  quality  '  honorable.'  For  his  purpose  was  to  vaunt  the 
superiority  of  the  English  magician  above  the  tragically  concluding 
German. 

This  consideration  confirms  the  assignment  of  Friar  Bacon  to 
some  time  within  a  year  after  the  production  of  Dr.  Faustus  (1588 
end  or  1589  beginning}.  So,  also,  the  resemblances  in  style  to 
Greene's  other  writings  of  that  period.  The  love  theme  in  Friar 
Bacon  is  similar  to  that  in  Tulliis  Love  (1589);  the  style  is  akin  to 
that  of  Orlando  (December,  1588).  These  two  are  also  closely 
related  as  dramatic  productions.  The  earlier,  to  be  sure,  confines 
itself  more  narrowly  to  the  satirical  intent,  while  the  later  aims 
in  aesthetic  respects,  also,  to  surpass  its  Marlowan  predecessor.  It 
is,  consequently,  an  improvement  upon  Orlando  in  construction  and 
characterization.  The  dramatist  is  now  working  with  free  hand, 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  this  field,  employs  the  ease  and  invention 
tor  which,  as  a  story-teller,  he  was  already  famous.  In  versifica- 
tion these  two  plays  continue  the  methods  of  the  Looking-Glasse  ; 
but  the  rhymed  lines  are  sensibly  fewer.  In  Orlando  they  appear 
at  the  end  of  the  first  half-dozen  speeches  ;  in  Friar  Bacon  they  are 
to  seek.  In  both  plays,  about  three-quarters  of  the  verses  avoid 
the  singsong  pause  at  the  end  of  the  second  foot.  In  the  Orlando, 
I  should  say  that  more  than  a  third  of  the  verses  escape,  in  addi- 
tion, the  penthimimeral  caesura;  in  the  Friar  Bacon,  almost  a  third. 

1  Cf.  the  summoning  of  Burden  and  his  hostess  with  that  of  Alexander  and  his  paramour. 


Robert    Greene  4 1 5 

The  dodecasyllable  with  which  Greene  is  experimenting  in  the 
interest  of  freedom,  is  somewhat  frequent  in  both  plays.  For  the 
reason  already  given,  there  is  not  so  much  prose  as  in  the  Looking- 
Glasse,  perhaps  only  half  as  much.  Still,  of  Orlando,  one-fifth  is 
written  in  prose,  and  of  Friar  Bacon  nearly  a  fourth. 

5.  Storojenko  *  holds  that  The  Scottish  Historic  of  "James  the  Fourth 
betrays  a  novel  tendency  toward  native  themes  and  simple  style,  and 
that,  with  Bacon  and  The  Pinner,  it  furnished  the  model  for  Shake- 
speare's romantic  comedies.  Professor  Brown,  pointing  out  that 
"James  IT.  is  "among  the  first  plays  to  have  an  acted  prologue  and 
interplay,"  thinks  that  Shakespeare  followed  Greene's  example  in 
the  Taming  of  the  Shrew  and  the  Midsummer  Night 's  Dream  ;  and 
he  groups  'James  II'.  with  The  Pinner  and  the  Looking-Glasse  as  later 
than  the  three  other  plays  ot  Greene,  and  free  from  their  "  alluring 
pedantry."2  But  we  have  already  seen  that  the  Looking-Glasse  pre- 
ceded both  Orlando  and  Bacon  ;  and  I  think  it  can  be  proved  that 
James  Ilr.  followed  them.  The  unique  exemplar,  printed  by 
Creede,  "  as  it  hath  bene  sundrie  times  publikely  plaide,"  is  of 
1598,  and  is  probably  a  reprint  of  a  lost  edition  of  1594-.3  Hens- 
low  makes  no  mention  of  the  play ;  nor  have  we  record  of  its 
acting.  Storojenko  conjectures  some  date  after  the  summer  of 
1589  for  its  composition;  Brown,  some  date  between  1587  and 
1592;  Ward,  about  1590;  Fleay,  after  August  23,  1589, 4 
because  it  uses  the  shorter  motto  (but  elsewhere,5  1591 — prob- 
ably in  collaboration  with  Lodge). 

The  following  observations  will,  I  think,  fix  the  limits  as  1590— 
1591.  Ida's  lines,  270—279  in  Act  I.,  beginning  "  And  weele  I 
wot,  I  heard  a  shepheard  sing,"1'  are  a  reminiscence  of  the  Hcard- 
groome  iv'  his  strawberrie  lasse  in  Peele's  Hunting  of  Cupid :  "  What 

1  Grosart,  I.    184. 

a  But  Grosart  ( I.  xxxvii.-xl.  )  appropriately  recalls  the  preiixistence  ot  the  Taming  of  a 
Shrew.  He  queries  the  sequence,  — jfames  If.,  Jll.  N.  D.,  —  but  without  upsetting  it. 

3  See  Storojenko  and  Grosart  as  above;   and  in  the  S.  R.,  Creede,  May  14,   1594. 

4  In  Ward,  0.  E.  D.  cxliii. 
6  Life  of  Sbal:esf>.,  p.   309. 
*  Continuing  :  — 

"That  like  a  Bee,  Lwc  batb  a  little  sting. 

He  !ur/tes  in  flowres,  lie  pearcheth  on  the  trees, 

He  on  king's  pillowes,  bends  his  prcttie  kne;-s.    .    .    ." 


4i 6  Robert    Greene 

thing  is  love  ?  for  (wel  I  wot)  love  is  a  thing,"  etc.1  Notice  the 
recurrence  in  Drummond's  version  of  the  "  weele  I  wot."  The 
41  shepheard "  to  whom  Ida  has  reference  is,  of  course,  one  of 
the  swains  of  the  Hunting,  or  Pcele  himself.  The  Hunting  was  not 
registered  for  printing  till  July  26,  1591  ;  but  then  with  the  pro- 
viso "  that  if  it  be  hurtful  to  any  other  copy  before  licensed  .  .  . 
this  to  be  void."  The  proviso  was  frequently  mere  form,  but  it 
suggests  that  Greene  may  have  drawn  the  verses  from  a  manuscript 
copy,  or  from  the  public  performance  before  July  26,  1591.  I 
do  not  think  that  the  Hunting  was  written  very  long  before  it  was 
registered,  because  the  atmosphere  and  phraseology  are  still  fresh 
in  Peele's  mind  when  he  writes  his  Descensus  Astracc,  October,  1591. 
But  it  is  interesting  to  note  that  there  occurs  a  premonition  or  echo 
of  these  same  verses  on  Love  in  Greene's  Mourning  Garment? 
which  had  been  registered  in  1590,  from  eight  to  twelve  months 
before  the  registration  of  the  Hunting.  We  mav,  with  reasonable 
latitude,  assign  the  composition  of  the  Hunting  to  the  year  1590, 
and  that  of  James  IT.  to  a  later  date  in  proximity  to  that  of 
Greene's  Mourning  Garment  —  say  about  July,  1590.  Confirma- 
tion of  this  conclusion  may  be  found  in  other  resemblances  of  sen- 
timent and  style  between  James  IJ'\  and  the  Mourning  Garment?  as 
well  as  in  Dorothea's  reference  to  the  Irish  wars,  which  may  have 

1  Continuing  :  — 

"  It  is  a  prtcxe,  it  is  a  sting, 

It  is  a  preetie,  prettie  thing. 

It  is  a  fire,  it  is  a  cole 

Whose  flame  creeps  in  at  everie  hole.    .    .    ." 

This  is  the  version  of  the   Drummond  Ms.  fragment,  which  differs  from  the  Ravvlinson  Ms. 
See  Dyce,  Greene  and  Peele,  p.   603.      Fainter  resemblances  might  be  cited. 
-  July  i  or  November  2  :  — 

"  Ah,  what  is  love  ?      It  is  a  prettie  thing 
As  swecte  unto  a  shepheard  as  a  king." 

—  The  Sbepbearifs  Wife' s  Song,  as  in  Dyce,  p.  305. 

Grosart's  transcript  of  i^  1616  (IX.  144)  accidentally  omits  all  but  the  last  two  lines  of  this 
song. 

3  Besides  the  frequent  identity  of  tone,  note  such  coincidences  as  "James  II'.  1.  2669, 
'  aldertruest,'  M.  G.  ( Descript.  of  Sheph.  and  Wife"),  '  alderlicfest,'  an  archaism  found 
nowhere  else  in  Greene, — but  in  the  Folio  of  2  Hrnrv  I7 1.  1.  2S  (  prob.  by  Greene,  Fleay, 
Shakespeare,  p.  269).  The  sentiment  of  Philador's  Scrc/ivle  and  Ode  in  .!/.  G.  is  a  variant 
of  the  Ovidian  precept  of  James  IV.  1.  1108. 


Robert    Greetie  417 

been  suggested  by  the  contemporary  rising  in  Fermanagh  ;  for,  since 
the  suppression  of  Desmond,  in  1583,  there  had  been  comparative 
quiet  in  Ireland.  Though  the  play  exhibits  little  of  the  affected 
style  which  Elizabeth  demanded,  it  is  courtly,  and  the  graceful 
compliment  to  the  queen  and  the  (English)  rose  in  the  laudation  of 
Dorothea's  attributes,  together  with  that  heroine's  forecast  of  a 
union  between  Scotland  and  England,1  might  indicate  a  view  to 
court  presentation,  and  a  date  of  composition  when  such  union  was 
favourably  contemplated.  The  further  boast  of  Dorothea  :  — 

"  Shall  never  Frenchman  say  an  English  maid 
Of  threats  of  forraine  force  will  be  afraid," 

was  doubtless  intended  for  the  ear  of  the  virgin  queen,  who,  in 
1590  and  1591,  was  busily  landing  forces  in  France  to  thwart  the 
schemes  of  her  implacable  enemies,  the  Guises.  This  play  may, 
therefore,  have  been  presented  by  Greene's  company,  at  court,  on 
December  26,  1590,  or  as  one  of  their  five  performances  during 
1591. 

The  moral  atmosphere  is  that  of  the  penitential  pamphlets  ;  while 
the  pictures  of  roguery  coincide  with  those  of  the  conycatching 
series.  The  portrayal  of  character  is  that  of  a  mature  dramatist ; 
the  plot  is  more  skilfully  manipulated  than  in  Friar  Bacon,  and 
covers  a  larger  canvas  ;  but,  though  it  smacks  of  the  folk,  it  has 
hardly  the  simple  domestic  interest  of  that  drama.  Still,  Ward 
calls  it  the  happiest,  Brown  the  most  perfect,  of  Greene's  plays  ;  in 
fact,  "  the  finest  Elizabethan  historical  play  outside  of  Shakespeare." 

The  versification  of  James  II'.  gives  proof  of  a  mature  quality  of 
experimentation.  Because  rhyme  prevails,  Collier  assigned  the 
play  to  Greene's  earlier  period  ;  but  the  criterion  is  inconclusive. 
Though  Greene  conformed  to  the  blank  verse  fashion  as  early  as 
I  588,  he  made  it  clear,  at  the  time,  that  he  was  no  convert.3  And, 
while  in  1590-91  he  recognizes  the  merits  of  a  richer  and  more 
varied  rhythm,  he  is  not  yet  convinced  that  rhyme  should  be  aban- 
doned ;  in  tender  and  gently  romantic  passages  he  counts  it  ut'ile  as 
well  as  dulce.  Some  of  the  scenes  in  which  Ida  and  the  queen 
figure  are,  accordingly,  almost  altogether  rhymed.  The  rhythmical 

1  Lines  1575-1580,  2655-2699.  8  To  the  Gentlemen  Redden  of  Perymedes. 

2  Lines  1901-1902. 

2E 


4i 8  Robert    Greene 

movement  is,  however,  no  less  liberal  than  in  Orlando  and  Bacon  ; 
the  proportion  of  monotone  and  penthimimeral  is  as  low  ;  and  as 
many  as  fifty  per  cent  of  the  cessura:  are  lyrical.  Fully  one-quarter 
of  the  play  is  in  prose. 

Having  a  regard  only  to  the  unquestioned  plays  of  Greene,  we 
notice  that  his  employment  of  dramatic  prose  dates  from  the  asso- 
ciation with  Lodge  in  the  Looking- Glasse ;  that  his  renunciation  of 
rhyme  was  short-lived,  and  that  its  resumption  did  not  hamper  the 
freedom  of  rhythmical  movement.  In  none  of  the  later  plays,  how- 
ever, is  the  verse  so  elastic  as  in  his  own  dramatic  portions  of  the 
Looking-Glasse.  And  there  the  mobility  was  probably  due  to  a 
desire  for  contrast  with  the  prophetic  monologues. 

Attributions.  —  Various  other  plays  have,  in  whole  or  in  part, 
been  assigned  to  Greene  ;  A  History  of  "Jobe^  not  extant  ;  part  of 
The  Troubleso??ie  Raigne  of  King  "John^  and  of  the  First  and  Second 
Parts  of  Henry  VI.  ;2  Fair  E/nm'3  (with  no  show  of  reason),  and 
others  mentioned  by  Dyce  ;  Titus  Andronicus  ;  4  The  Pinner  of  IVake- 
field,  Selimus,  and  A  Knack  to  Know  a  Knave.5  We  can  consider 
only  the  last  three. 

I.  The  earliest  extant  exemplar  of  George-a- Greene ,  the  Pinner  of 
IV ake field  is  in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  library.  The  author's 
name  does  not  appear.  But  the  printer,  publisher,  year,  vignette, 
and  motto  {Aut  mine  aut  nunquani)  are  the  same  as  on  the  title- 
page  of  the  1599  Orlando;  and  the  same  printer,  Burbyc,  had,  in 
1592,  published  other  works  of  Greene:  the  Third  Part  of  Conny- 
Catching  and  The  Repentance.  These  items  do  not,  however,  prove 
anything  concerning  the  identity  of  the  author.  The  play  was 
entered  to  Burbye,  April  i,  1595.  We  learn  from  the  title-page 
that  the  Sussex  company  acted  it ;  and  Henslowe  records  five  of 
these  performances  between  December  29,  1593,  and  January  22, 
1594.  But,  though  the  Sussex  men  soon  afterwards  twice  assisted 
Greene's  former  company  in  the  presentation  of  Friar  Bacon,  they 

1  S.  R.  1 1594. 

2  Fleay,  Hist.  Staqc,  pp.  399,  400  ;   Life  of  Shake sp.,  p.  255  et  scy.      He  guesses  also  True 
Cbron.   Hist,  of  Lei r,   Valentine  and  Orson,  and  Rubin  H'jdd  (Hist.   Stage,  89,  400). 

8  Fhillips's  Tbeatrum  Poetarum. 

4  Grosart  in  Engine  be  .SW.  XXII.   (1896). 

5  See  under  '  Young  Juvenall '  below. 


Robert    Greene  4 1 9 

do  not  seem  at  this,  or  any  previous  period,  to  have  owned  any  of 
the  unquestioned  plays  of  Robert  Greene.  Henslowe  does  not 
mark  this  one  4  new,'  and  the  dramatic  contents  give  no  indication 
of  its  date,  save  that  one  of  the  dramatis  persona  refers  to  Tam- 
berlaine.1  No  light  is  thrown  upon  the  authorship  by  contempo- 
rary publications;  and,  as  late  as  Kirkman's  Catalogue,  1661,  the 
play  was  still  anonymous.  It  has  been  assigned  to  Greene  on  the 
manuscript  evidence  which  has  already  been  shown  to  be  inconclu- 
sive.2 In  the  last  resort  our  decision  must  depend  upon  the  detec- 
tion of  Greenian  characteristics.  Dr.  Ward  has  observed  that  the 
play  possesses  "  one  of  Greene's  most  attractive  notes,  —  a  native 
English  freshness  of  colouring,"  —  glimpses  of  which  may  also  be 
had  in  Friar  Bacon  and  James  IT.  This  is  true.  The  representa- 
tion of  the  characters,  manners,  and  speech  of  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  is  such  as  might  have  contributed  to  Chettle's  estimate 
of  the  dramatist,  —  "the  only  comedian  of  a  vulgar  writer  in  this 
country."3  In  the  "plotting,"  also,  of  the  play,  no  ordinary  skill  is 
evinced,  and  that  is  the  "  quality,"  says  Nashe,  wherein  Greene 
was  master  of  his  craft.4  The  material  is  a  popular  story,  like  the 
material  of  Friar  Bacon.  One  of  the  incidents,  indeed,  existed  not 
only  in  the  popular  story,  but  in  the  experience  of  Robert  Greene 
as  well.5  The  rhetorical  style  here  and  there  affords  an  inkling  of 
this  "  very  supporter  "  of  native  comedy  :  a  word  that  seems  to  be 
his,6  a  phrase  or  trick  of  the  tongue,"  a  figure  or  two,8  occasionally 
a  bejewelled  verse,9  and  once,  at  least,  a  sentiment,  — 

"  The  sweet  content  of  men  that  live  in  love 
Breeds  fretting  humours  in  a  restless  mind." 

But  in  Greene's  undoubted  productions  the  Greenian  attributes  are 
not  so  far  to  seek :  the  curious  imagery,  the  precious  visualizing, 
the  necromantic  monstrous  toys.  With  his  brocaded  rhetoric  fancy 

1  Line  48.  2  Page  401,  above. 

8  Kind  Hartf  Dreamt,   1592.  *   Ha-ve  luitb   You,  etc.,    1596. 

6  Making  "the  apparriter  eate  his  citation,"  Strange  Ne-ives,  etc.,  1592. 

6  Dumps,  affects,  quaint,  fair  (for  beauty),  vail,  bonnet  (but  the  last  two  come  from  the 
prose  romance). 

7  "  Why,  who  art  thou  ?"      "  Why,  I  am  George,"  etc. 

8  "  Painting  my  outward  passions,"  11.  311-312.  9  Bonfield  to  Bettris,  11.  215-126. 


420  Robert    Greene 

is  captivated  and  judgment  disarmed.  He  gluts  each  appetite  in  turn 
with  '  semblances,'  —  rare,  remote,  and  meretricious.  His  silks  are 
gay  with  '  sparks '  and  margarites,  redolent  of  sandalwood  and 
spice,  stiff  with  oriental  gold.  They  rustle  richly  on  the  ear. 
The  atmosphere  is  sense  idealized  ;  the  melody,  a  bell.  I  do  not 
find  these  earmarks  in  The  Pinner ;  nor  the  coloured  negligence 
of  Greene,  the  studied,  off-hand  blush,  the  conscious  affectation  of 
unconscious  art.  Of  such  devices  "James  IV.,  indeed,  is  by  no  means 
compact ;  but,  in  its  first  fifth,  there  are  four  or  five  times  as  many  ref- 
erences to  the  foreign,  the  historical,  astrological,  mythical,  as  in  all 
The  Pinner.  The  three  or  four  classical  allusions  in  The  Pinner 
are  stark.  But  Greene's  employment  of  the  mythological  is  never 
unattractive;  it  is  sui  generis.  It  has  always  a  quiddity  of  the  indi- 
rect, the  unexpected  :  a  relish  of  distinction.  These  bald  "  Caesars  " 
and  u  Helenas  "  of  The  Pinner  are  not  Greene.  On  the  contrary, 
we  come  across  many  words,  fashions  of  prose  dictions  and  comic 
devices,  that  savour  of  Lodge  as  we  know  him  in  the  Civil!  IVar 
and  the  Looking-Glasse,  and  suspect  him  in  Mucedorus.  The  con- 
versations are  sometimes  reminiscent  of  Greene  ;  but,  on  the  whole, 
they  fail  of  his  humorous  indirection  and  his  craft. 

The  verse  is  so  vilely  divided  in  the  original  that  even  after 
Dyce's  attempt  at  reconstruction,  no  basis  for  conclusive  attribu- 
tion of  authorship  is  available.  Prose  forms  a  large  proportion  ; 
indeed,  it  looks  as  if  the  author  were  trying  to  see  how  near  prose 
he  might  come  without  ceasing  to  produce  unrhymed  pentameters. 
Fragmentary  lines,  dodecasyllables,  feminine  endings,  and  rhetorical 
pauses  abound.  These  last  are  to  me  more  suggestive  of  Greene's 
association  with  the  play  than  is  any  other  feature;  for  more  than 
once  or  twice  they  yield  the  genuinely  Greenian  rhythm.1  It 
Greene  had  a  hand  in  The  Pinner,  the  metrical  style  would  fix  its 
date  just  before  or  after  James  IV.  It  has  the  ease  and  variety  of 
Bacon,  but  is  as  signal  an  experiment  in  conversational  blank  verse 
as  was  James  IV.  in  rhymed  dramatic;  and  it  is  a  fairly  successful 
experiment. 

2.     The  Firt  Part  of  the  Tragical!  Raigne  of  Selimus  (Creede,  1594) 
has   been   reclaimed  for   Greene  by  Dr.  Grosart,  principally  on  the 

1  As  described  in  my  Appendix  to  Friar  Bacon. 


Robert    Greene  421 

evidence  of  England's  Parnassus  (1600)  which  assigns  to  Greene 
two  passages  taken  from  Selimus.1  For  Dr.  Grosart's  presentation 
of  the  case  the  reader  may  be  referred  to  the  Introduction  to  his 
edition  of  Greene.2  It  is  worthy  of  the  most  careful  study.  Dr. 
Ward  after  examining  the  interval  evidence  decides  adversely  to  Dr. 
Grosart's  results.3  The  following  additional  considerations  incline 
me  to  the  same  decision.  The  weight  of  the  evidence  depends,  not 
upon  the  number  of  passages  from  Selimus  assigned  by  Allott  to  Greene, 
but  upon  the  style  of  each  passage.  In  the  Parnassus,  Allott  has 
assigned  to  Greene  passages  from  other  works,  which  do  not  belong 
to  him  ;  two,  for  instance,  which  have  been  traced  to  Spenser.  If 
the  passages  from  Selimus  on  Delate  and  Damocles  have  not  Greene's 
characteristic,  then  twenty  such  assignments  do  not  prove  that  he 
wrote  Selimus.  They  would  more  logically  prove  that  the  collector, 
in  this  as  in  other  cases,  is  an  uncertain  guide.  Now  there  is  no 
trace,  not  the  faintest,  of  Greene's  diction,  sentiment,  poetic  quality, 
or  rhythmical  form,  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  Delate,  or  the 
platitude  of  the  Damocles.  And  so  throughout  the  play.  Neither 
the  defects  nor  the  merits  appear  to  me  to  be  Greene's.  Many  of 
the  lines  are,  indeed,  resonant,  scholarly,  and  strong,  but  not  in 
Greene's  quality.  If  the  play  were  written  by  Greene,  it  could 
not  have  been  written  later  than  the  Alpbonsus :  stanzaic  form,  and 
the  crudities  of  rhythm,  diction,  and  technique  determine  that ;  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  could  it  have  been  written  earlier  than  the 
dlphonsus,  for  with  Alpbomus  Greene  began  "  to  treat  of  bloody 
iVIars."  It  is  not  incumbent  upon  me  to  find  an  author  for  Selimus, 
but  I  think  that  the  probabilities  indicate  Lodge  (circa  1586—87). 
It  has  perhaps  not  been  noted  that  Bullithrumble's  lines  (1955— 1958) 
about  godfathers  are  duplicated  by  Lodge's  Alcon  in  the  Looking- 
Glasse  (1.  1603);  and  that  the  parlance  of  Bullithrumble  is  paral- 
leled by  Curtail  and  Poppey  in  Lodge's  Civil!  Il'ar  (circa  1587). 
The  dogberryisms,  clipped  words,  and  inverted  phrases  of  the  same 
character  are  of  a  piece  also  with  those  of  Mouse  in  Mucedorusf  — 

1  On  Delaie,  11.   503-509;   on  Damocles,  11.  853-857. 

2  In  Vol.   I.  of  Greene's  tPorb,  and  in  the  Temple  Dramatists. 

3  Hist.  E.  D.  L.  Vol.  I. 

4  Lines  1980-1983  of  Selimus  are  reproduced  in  MuceJorus  (H.  Dods.  VII.  214). 


422  Robert    Greene 

a  play  which  has  indeed  so  many  of  the  idiosyncrasies  that  mark 
the  Civill  IVar  that  Mr.  Fleay  is  not  without  warrant  in  conjectur- 
ing the  authorship  of"  Lodge.  It  should  in  addition  be  remarked 
that  several  of  the  expressions  which  Dr.  Grosart  finds  in  Selimus, 
and  considers  to  be  peculiarly  Greene's,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Civill  IVar  and  the  Mucedorus ;  and  that  some  non-Greenian  char- 
acteristics of  the  Selimus  appear  in  one  or  the  other  of  these  plays. 
The  "to-fore,"  for  instance,  which  Dr.  Grosart  marks  as  Greenian 
in  Selimus  occurs  four  times  in  Mucedorus  alone.  The  blank  verse 
of  the  Selimus  finds  its  parallel  in  that  of  the  Civill  War;  so,  also, 
the  quaint  stanzaic  form,  and  the  apparently  Greenian  moralizing 
on  'content  ' J  (11.  2049—2053).  And  conversely,  the  profound  and 
easeful  soliloquies  and  serious  imagery  of  the  Civill  IVar  are  nearer 
akin  to  those  of  the  Selimus  than  to  anything  of  Greene's. 

3.  'Young  Juvenall '  and  the  '  Comedie  lastly  writ.'  —  "With 
thee  "  says  Greene  to  Marlowe  in  the  Groatsiuorth,  "  I  joyne  young 
Juvenall,  that  bvting  satirist,  that  lastly  with  mee  together  writ  a 
comedie.  Sweete  boy,  might  I  advise  thee,"  etc.  Simpson  and 
Grosart  disprove  the  conjecture2  that  the  play  was  the  Looking-Glasse 
and  the  'Juvenal,'  Lodge:  The  Looking-Glasse  had  not  been  lately 
written  ;  the  epithet  '  Juvenal  '  did  not  at  any  time  apply  to  Lodge ; 
nor  would  Greene,  in  1592,  have  called  him  a  "sweete  boy"  as  he 
calls  this  fellow-dramatist,  for  Lodge,  born  1557,  was  thirty-five  at 
the  time  and  older  than  Greene  by  three  years.  It  is  argued  that 
'  Juvenal '  was  Nashe  as  follows  :  Nashe  was  already  proficient  in 
satire;  he  had,  between  1589  and  1592,  published  half  a  dozen 
pasquinades  which  had  met  with  immediate  success  ;  he  calls  himself 
and  is  called  by  others  '  PasquiP  or  'Aretine'  or  the  'railing  Nashe'; 
and  Meres  in  1598  addresses  him  as  "gallant  young  Juvenal"  and 
mentions  him  with  Greene  among  the  "  best  writers  of  comedie." 
It  must  also  be  remembered  that  Nashe  was  '  young  '  -  —  not  quite 
twenty-five  in  1592  —  "and  that  a  difference  of  seven  years  made 
him  a  '  sweete  boy  '  in  Greene's  regard."3  To  these  considerations 

1  Cf.   G-v.   W..  H.  Dods.  VII.   137,  147,  187,  192-193. 

2  Cf.  Dyce,  M  alone,  Kit-ay . 

3  Grosart,   Greene,  I.  pp.  Ivii-lxv,  who  quotes  Simpson,   Greene   on  Nasbe,  Academy,   llth 
April,    1874,    and    Symonds,  Predecestort   of  Shakespeare,  p.   574.      Of  this  opinion  are  also 
Farmer,  Staunton,  and  Ward. 


Robert    Greene  423 

I  add  the  following:  First,  —  Chettle  feigning  a  letter1  from  the 
dead  poet  to  Nashe  {Robert  Greene  to  Pierce  Pennilesse],  makes 
Greene  use  almost  the  epithet  of  the  Groatswortbj  "  Awake,  secure 
boy,  revenge  thy  wrongs."  It  may  be  surmised  that  the  older  poet 
was  in  the  way  of  thus  affectionately  terming  the  younger,  and  that 
Chettle,  who  had  edited  the  Groatsu'orth,  had  the  pamphlet  in  mind 
when  he  conceived  this  letter.  Second,  —  The  pains  taken  by  Nashe, 
in  his  Strange  Newes,  to  disclaim  anything  like  continuous  companion- 
ship are  occasioned  by  the  fact  that  he  and  Greene  had  "  lastly  " 
been  "together."  He  writes,  in  September,  1592,  "Since  first 
I  knewe  him  [Greene]  about  towne,  I  have  beene  two  yeares  together 
and  not  seene  him."2  The  "first"  refers  to  1588—89  when  Nashe 
was  championing  Greene's  Menaphon  and  scoring  Greene's  rivals  in 
The  Anatomic.  The  "two  yeares"  bring  us  to  1591,  when  he  was 
engaged  with  Greene  in  the  controversy  with  the  Harveys3  which 
he  here  recounts  with  such  detail  as  to  indicate  no  slight  acquaint- 
ance with  Greene's  motives  and  movements  at  the  time.  In  that 
year  appeared  Nashe's  Astrological  Prognostication,  and  in  the  next, 
Greene's  Ji£w//S  both  bearing  upon  the  subject  on  hand.  We  may 
infer  that  the  revival  of  their  literary  association  was  connected 
with  the  '  canvazing '  of  the  rope-maker's  sons.4  Greene's  con- 
cluding counsel  is  such  as  we  should  expect  him  to  give  the  'young 
Juvenall '  with  whom  he  had  lately  engaged  against  a  common 
enemy.5  Nashe  informs  us  also  that  he  had  occasionally,  of  late, 
caroused  with  the  poet  and  that  he  was  present  at  that  "  banquet  of 
Rhenish  and  pickled  herrings  "  from  which  Greene  took  his  death.6 
Third,  —  When  Dekker,  some  fifteen  years  later,  tells  in  his  Knight's 
Conjuring  of  the  habitants  of  the  "  Fieldes  of  Jove,"  he  introduces 
Nashe  as  one  of  that  group  which  is  exclusively  restricted  to  the 
poets,  and  the  editor,  of  Greene's  Groatsu'ortb.  "Marlow,  Greene, 
and  Peele,"  writes  he,  "  had  got  under  the  shades  of  a  large  vyne 

1  In  Kind  Harts  Dreamc,  1592. 

2  Strange  Nerves,  Sig.  L.  4. 
8  Ibid.,  Sig.  c.  2,   -5. 

4  See  Sa/ron  Waldcn  (11596),  Sig.  v.  2. 

!>  "  Blame  not  scholars   [the  Harveys  ?]  vexed  with  sharpe  lines  if  they  reprove  thy  too 
much  libertie  of  reproofe."      Grosart,  xii.  143,  Groatsiv. 
8  Strange  Nciucs,  Sig.  H.  and  E.  4. 


424  Robert    Greene 

laughing  to  see  Nash  [the  favourite  of  the  group,  and  even  yet  the 
'  sweete  boy ']  that  was  but  newly  come  to  their  colledge,  still 
haunted  with  the  sharpe  and  satyricall  spirit  that  followed  him  heere 
upon  earth.  .  .  ."  And  why  there  ?  He  had  "  shorten'd  his  dayes 
by  keeping  company  with  pickle-herring  "  [many  another  night,  no 
doubt,  than  that  of  August,  1592,  with  Will  Monox  and  Ro. 
Greene,  —  but  that  night  persisted].  And  with  what  do  they  greet 
him?  "How  [do]  poets  and  players  agree  now?"  A  precise 
Groatsivortb  issue  to  which  Nashe  responds  in  proper  Groatsworth 
phrase,  with  echo  as  well  from  his  Preface  to  the  Menaphon,  and 
with  a  parting  fling  at  Harvey.1  Then,  as  if  to  round  out  the  com- 
pany, there  enters  Kind  Hart,  a-puffing,  —  Chettle,  himself,  the 
conservator  of  the  '  Colledge.'  Thus  Dekker  the  contemporary 
of  the  Groatswortb  group  fixes  the  identity  of  its  'Juvenall'  on 
earth  and  under.  And  the  '  comedie  '  was  writ  in  1591  or  the  first 
half  of  1592. 

But  it  is  not  easy  to  determine  its  name.  A  plea  might  be  made 
for  Summer's  Last  Will  and  Testament?  on  certain  counts  of  R. 
W.'s  diatribe  in  Martine  Marsixtus^  but  I  doubt  whether  it  would 
convince.  Simpson  thinks  that  the  'comedie'  was  not  improbably 
A  Knack  to  Know  a  Knave,  which  had  been  acted  as  new,  June  10, 
1592.  Fleay,4  however,  asserts  that  there  is  not  the  slightest 
ground  for  this  conjecture  ;  and  Grosart5  is  sure  that  "  no  one  who 
reads  A  Knack  can  possibly  find  in  it  one  line  from  either  Greene 
or  Nashe."  I  shall  not  undertake  to  prove  that  Mr.  Simpson  was 
right  :  it  must,  however,  be  observed  that  the  subject  of  A  Knack 
was  not  foreign  to  the  genius  of  Nashe ;  that  two  of  the  char- 

1  "  Ocnus,  that  makes  ropes  in  hell  "  —  who  in  truth  survived  them  all. 

2  Privately  acted  between  July  27  and  August  21,   1592,  at  Croydon.      Fleay,  H.  S.  p.  78. 

3  "What  publishing  of  frivolous  and  scurrilous  prognostications,  as  if  Will  Summers  were 
again  revived,"  etc.      "  And  yet  tbc\  shame  not  to  subscribe  '  By  a  graduate  in  Cambridge  '  '  In 
slrtibus  Minister.'1    .   .   .      The\'  are  the    Pharisees  of  our  time,"  etc.      Note  the  plural.      But 
though  Nashe  had  revived  Will  Somers  in   the   L.  IV '.  and  7'.,  though  he  was  entitled  to  sub- 
scribe himself  "Graduate  in  C.,"  as  Greene  had  done,  and  though  Greene  is  the  A.I\I.  and 
intended  "  Pharisee,"  etc.,  the  "scurrilous  prognostications"  and  the  other  earmarks  are  hard 
to  find  in  L.  W,  and  T.,  as  we  have  it.      The  "lute-string"  passage  ( Dods.  IX.  22)  recalls 
Thrasybulus'   remarks  in   Lk.-Gl.    Sc.   v.  ;    but  that   scene   is  probably   by   Lodge,    and   Nashe 
himself  parallels  the  passage  more  closely  in  Christ's  Tears  (1593). 

4  Life  of  Sbakcsp.,  p.   109. 

5  Greene,  I.  Ixii. 


Robert    Greene  425 

acters,  the  satirical  commentator  and  the  Welshman,  have  their 
counterparts  in  his  Summers  Last  Will;  and  that  Greene  had  with 
godly  intent  written  up  and  published  the  whole  truth  about  knaves 
and  4coosnage'  only  within  the  past  year  and  a  half.  As  for  the 
plot,  it  may  have  no  analogue  in  Nashe's  works,  but  in  one J  at  least 
of  its  threads  it  parallels  Friar  Bacon,  and  in  another2  the 
Looking- Glasse ;  and  four  or  five  of  its  situations3  reproduce  pecu- 
liarities and  language  of  those  plays.  As  for  the  speeches,  though 
more  than  one  is  reminiscent  of  Greene's  rococo^  the  style  is  more 
like  that  of  the  Last  IVilL  To  be  sure  there  are  septenarii  in  the 
Knack,  and  none  in  the  Will',  but  the  blank  verse,  such  as  it  is, 
might  readily  have  been  chipped  from  Nashe ;  so  also  the  short 
irregular  rhymed  lines,  and  much  of  the  prose.  The  vocabulary 
is  not  unlike  his.  Nashe  might  have  been  capable  of  the  classical 
excrescences  ;  Greene  certainly  was  not.  These  coincidences  are, 
of  course,  merely  suggestive.  For  me  they  indicate  possibly  that  if 
Greene  had  no  hand  in  the  play,  some  one  who  lacked  his  touch  and 
most  of  his  cunning  has  freely  plundered  him  ;5  and  that,  if  he  had 
an  interest  in  the  play,  it  was  limited  to  the  suggestion  of  plot  and 
treatment.  Nashe  may  have  thrown  the  material  into  shape.  It  is 
a  small  matter,  but  perhaps  worth  recording,  that  the  Knack  calls 
itself  "  a  most  pleasant  and  merie  new  Gomedie"  that  Greene  calls 
the  play  "  lastly  writ  "  a  c  comedie,'  and  that  no  other  play  con- 
nected with  his  name  save  the  doubtful  Pinner  is  so  described.  Also 
that  the  date  of  the  Knack  accords  with  the  conditions  :  it  was  played 

1  Cf.  Kn.  (H.  Dods.  514)  with  F.  B.,  Sc.  i.  155,  "  the  vicarious  wooing." 

2  Cf.  Kn.,  Episode  of  Philarchus,  with  H.-G/.,  that  of  Radagon. 

8  Cf.  the  sequel  of  the  vicarious  wooing  in  Kn.  with  that  in  F.  B.  ;  Smith  and  Cobbler, 
Kn.  (p.  566),  "God  of  our  occupation  .  .  .  cuckold,"  with  same  conversation,  Lk.-Gl., 
Sc.  ii.  254-2,55;  Thankless  son,  Kn.  (p.  523),  "Thou  hast  been  fostered,"  etc.,  with 
Lk.-Gl.,  Sc.  viii.  1247;  Kn.  (p.  523),  "disdain  .  .  .  want,"  with  Lk.-Gl.  1273;  Kn. 
(p.  526),  "Mother's  curse  .  .  .  hated,"  etc.,  with  Lk.-Gl.,  \.  1275.  Resemblances  to 
Lodge's  lines  are:  Usurer,  Kn.  (pp.  548-549),  and  Lk.-Gl.,  Scs.  iii.  v.  ;  Kn.,  "My 
house  .  .  .  goods,"  and  Lk.-Gl.  iii.  419,  "My  cow,"  etc. 

4  Cf.  Kn.  (H.  Dods.  VI.  514),  Ethenwald's  "to  show  your  passions  .  .  .  fairer  than 
the  dolphin's  eye,"  etc.,  to  the  end,  and  (H.  Dods.  VI.  562)  Ethenwald's  "purpled  main 
.  .  .  wanton  love,"  etc.,  and  (p.  5^0)  Alfrida's  "Beset  with  orient  pearl,"  etc.,  with 
F.  B.,  Sc.  viii.  11.  26,  50-73. 

6  On  this  basis,  I  see  something  to  be  said  in  favour  of  Mr.  Fleay's  conjecture  of  Wilson, 
but  not  of  Pcele  and  Wilson. 


426  Robert    Greene 

about  two  months  before  the  Groatsworth  was  begun,  and  by  a  com- 
pany that  then  was  acting  three  dramas  known  to  be  Greene's. 

Friar  Bacon :  Stage  History  and  Materials.  —  The  position  of 
Greene's  plays  in  the  history  of  English  comedy  is  indicated  in 
Professor  Woodberry's  article.  The  play  here  under  discussion 
was  acted  with  some  frequency  between  1591  and  1594,  some- 
times at  important  seasons,  always  with  fair  attendance,  and  occa- 
sionally with  large  profits.  It  was  performed  at  court  as  late  as 
1602,  and  was  occasionally  revived  under  James  I.  and  Charles  I.1 

The  necromantic  theme  with  its  instruments,  the  characters 
primarily  concerned  (Bacon,  Bungay,  Vandermast,  Miles),  and  the 
catastrophes  connected  with  the  lwonderfull  glasse,'  i.e.  the  materials 
for  Scenes  ix.,  xi.,  xiii.,  are  derived  from  The  famous  Historie  of  Frier 
Bacon,  already  mentioned  —  "a  popular  slory-book  probably  written 
toward  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  founded  upon  accre- 
tions of  the  legendary  history  of  Roger  Bacon."  2  The  same  source 
afforded  also  the  suggestion  of  Scenes  ii.  and  vi.  —  the  exposure 
of  Burden's  intrigue  and  the  interrupted  wedding.  The  romantic 
theme,  its  characters  and  incidents,  and  the  enveloping  action  are 
of  Greene's  devising.  What  slight  resemblance  the  last  bears  to 
history  need  not  here  be  recapitulated.  For  that,  and  for  the  literary 
career  of  the  magical  devices,  the  readers  may  consult  the  admirable 
summaries  of  Ward3  and  Ritter,  to  which  I  have  nothing  to  add 
save  that  there  exists  a  prior  suggestion  of  the  '  head  of  brass,'  in 
English  drama,  in  the  Conflict  of  Conscience,  III.  iii.  5,  and,  in  the 
same  play,  an  instance  of  the  l  crystal  clear  '  or  '  gladsome  glass.' 
The  latter  might  seem,  indeed,  to  be  anticipated  by  the  '  Glass  of 
Reson  '  in  Redford's  IVyt  and  Science,  but  that  is  a  different  thing. 
The  'glass  prospective'  is  adapted  in  Friar  Bacon  to  a  species  of 
stage  business  which  is  unique:  the  scene  beside  a  scene,  —  a  device 

1  Fleay,  Life  of  Shakesp.,  and  in  Ward's  0.  E.  D.,  p.  cxliv. 

2  Born  1214;   student  at  Oxford  and  Paris;    Franciscan  at  Oxford;   because  of  his   mathe- 
matical and   philosophical    lore   suspected   of  necromancy  and  forbidden   to   lecture ;   imprisoned 
1278-1292;   died  1294.      See  Ward,   0.  E.  D.,  xxi-xxiv. 

3  0.   K.   D.,  pp.    207-210;    O.    Ritter,    De   Rot>.    Grecni   Fahula    '  F.   B.    anA  B.'      The 
summoning  of  shades  occurs  in  the  Odyssey  and  I  Sam.   2S.  7.       Magical  images  were  made  by 
Vergil,    the    Enchanter;    the    Bra/en    H.  speaks    in    Valent.   and  Orson.       The  wall   of   brass 
is   found   in    Gir.    Cambrensis,  and   Spenser.       The   Speculum    is   assigned   to  Ca-sar,   and   the 
Enchanter,  Vergil.       Sec  also  Chaucer  and  Spenser. 


Robert    Greene  427 

essentially  distinct  from  the  play  within  the  play.  While  the  persons 
to  whom  we  owe  the  disclosure  of  this  parallel  scene  are  no  less  sur- 
prised thereby  than  are  we,  the  persons  of  the  scene  disclosed  not 
only  vitally  aftect  the  main  action  by  the  unaffected  pursuit  of  their 
own  interests,  but  incidentally  present  the  fact  that  is  stranger  than 
fiction.  To  the  double  illusion  of  the  play  concocted  within  a  play, 
this  impromptu  enlistment  of  nature  in  the  ranks  of  art  adds  the 
illusion  of  unconscious  drama.  Moreover,  in  the  glass  prospective 
scenes,  the  piquancy  of  the  preternatural  is  surpassed  by  that  of 
the  natural ;  the  artless  eclipses  the  artificial,  and  the  result  is  an 
artistic  irony.  And,  after  all,  these  scenes  beside  the  scene  are  but 
the  dear  device  of  eavesdropping  purged  of  the  keyhole  and  the  sneak. 
They  are  not  the  strategic  contrivance  of  the  inner  play  of  the 
Spanish  Tragedy  or  Hamlet,  nor  a  mere  mechanism  for  diversion  as 
in  James  IT.  and  Midsummer  Night,  nor  an  episode  as  in  Love's 
Labor,  nor  a  substitute  for  the  initial  movement  like  the  play  within 
the  Old  Wives'  Tale,  but  a  something  that  combines  qualities  from 
each.  The  parallel  scene  is  at  the  same  time  its  own  raison  d'etre, 
and  a  reflex  of  its  principal  which  it  multiplies  and  raises  to  a  higher 
power.  . 

The  motif —  the  wooing  by  proxy  —  is,  of  course,  as  ancient  as 
the  Arthuriad,  and  as  modern  as  Miles  Standish  •,  indeed,  older  and 
younger  yet.  This  appearance  precedes,  however,  several  other 
dramatic  instances,  such  as  those  of  Falre  Em,  the  Knack,  and,  I 
believe,  /  Henry  VI.  There  are  likewise  to  be  found  precursors  of 
Edward's  renunciation,  as  in  the  Campaspe,  and  later  instances,  as  in 
the  Knack  and  other  plays.  The  apparently  motiveless  abandon- 
ment of  Peggy  is,  however,  a  novelty,  and  uniquely  handled  ;  a 
capital  instance  of  '  comic '  irony,  invested  with  solemnity,  and 
introduced  with  a  wink. 

Dramatic  Construction.  —  The  pedant  might  find  it  easy  to  break 
this  plot  upon  a  wheel ;  but  the  plot  is  none  the  less  a  dramatic 
success.  It  may  be  that  the  climax  is  reached  too  soon  ;  but  the 
scene  is  none  the  less  effective  for  its  suddenness  and  in  its  con- 
sequence. The  sham  desertion  exists  merely  because  Greene 
was  put  to  it,  after  his  climax,  to  string  out  the  romantic  interest. 
In  itself  it  is  an  absurdity,  but  a  delicious  absurdity  ;  and,  unsympa- 


428  Robert    Greene 

thetic  as  we  may  be  with  the  mediaeval  test  of  constancy,  the  event 
somehow  suffices,  —  perhaps  because  it  unfolds  phases  of  Margaret's 
character  which  owe  their  witchery  to  their  unlikelihood.  It  may 
be  said  that  the  title  thread  is,  for  us,  of  secondary  interest ;  but 
such  a  judgment  would  by  no  means  hold  true  of  an  Elizabethan 
audience.  That,  indeed,  would  delight  in  the  necromantic  '  busi- 
ness,' with  its  elements  of  sensation  and  amaze,  its  contribution 
to  l  humours,'  and  its  intermittent  influence  upon  plot.  It  may 
be  said  that  the  intersection  of  the  threads  is  not  of  necessity,  but  of 
external  agency  ;  that  the  tragic  minor  motive  is  imported,  and  the 
enveloping  action  thin.  But  why  measure  the  beautiful  by  rule 
of  thumb  ?  The  quality  here  is  sui  generis,  residing  in  scenes 
rather  than  fable  —  scenes  idyllic,  spectacular,  amusing,  so  ordered 
that  movement  shall  be  continuous  and  interest  unflagging.  The 
interest  is  not  primarily  of  character  or  solution ;  it  proceeds 
from  the  pageant  :  and  the  continuity  from  the  manager.  Greene, 
the  story-teller,  has  suborned  Greene,  the  impresario;  there  results 
this  panel-romance,  a  drama  of  the  picturesque.  On  no  previous 
occasion  had  sentimental,  comic,  sensational,  mysterious,  sublime, 
and  tragic  been  so  blended  upon  an  English  background  for  a  comedy 
of  English  life.  This  was  something  novel  for  the  pit ;  a  spectacle 
kaleidoscopic,  rapid,  innocuous ;  a  heart-in-the-mouth  ecstasy,  a 
circus  of  many  rings.  How  artistically  it  was  contrived  appears  when 
one  considers  the  sequence  and  grouping  of  the  scenes.  These  fall 
into  series,  which  happen  to  be  five  in  number;  but  to  indicate 
them  as  acts  in  the  text  might  impair  the  charade-like  simplicity 
of  the  show.  The  series  are  :  First,  Scenes  i.— iv.,  four  groups  and 
four  environments,  the  material  of  all  future  combinations  of  scene 
and  sensation  :  the  courtiers  on  the  country  side  —  chivalric  and 
idyllic;  the  doctors  and  the  colleges — scholastic,  necromantic;  the 
country  folk  and  their  fair —  pastoral,  romantic  ;  the  royal  residence 
and  the  court  —  spectacular  ;  time,  about  two  days.  Second,  Scenes 
v.— vii.,  Oxford:  street,  cell,  and  regent-house  —  the  riotous,  magi- 
cal, romantic,  and  spectacular ;  apparently  the  day  after  Scene  i.,  but 
actually  some  two  days.  Third,  Scenes  viii.-x.,  the  next  day : 
country,  college,  and  country  again  —  romance,  black  art,  peril, 
and  pathos.  Fourth,  Scenes  xi.— xiii.,  sixty  days  later  ;  college,  court, 


Robert    Greene  429 

and  college  —  magic,  majesty,  and  collapse  of  the  supernatural. 
Fifth,  Scenes  xiv.— xvi.,  the  next  day  :  country,  college,  and  court  — 
mock  heroics  and  the  pastoral,  burlesque  of  the  supernatural,  the 
smile  of  royalty,  and  couleur  de  rose.  Throughout,  the  action  is 
sustained,  the  crises  are  frequent,  the  reversals  of  fortune  unex- 
pected and  absorbing,  the  suspense  sufficient. 

In  spite  of  the  author's  efforts  to  make  a  prig  of  Margaret, 
and  in  spite  of  all  disparity  between  her  station  and  her  style,  the 
u  lovely  star  of  Fressingfield  "  shines  first  and  fairest  of  her  daugh- 
ters in  English  comedy,  —  of  country  wenches  born  to  conquer. 
Innocent,  coy,  standing  upon  her  "  honest  points,"  she  is  neither 
unsophisticated  nor  crude  —  but  a  perilous  coquette.  In  wit,  yield- 
ing not  to  the  Lincoln  earl,  and  in  diplomacy  one  too  many  for  the 
prince,  she  hardly  needs  to  warn  them  or  us  that  she  has  had  lords 
for  lovers  before.  "  Stately  in  her  stammell  red,"  she  toys  with 
Edward,  for  whom  she  doesn't  care  ;  but  his  deputy-lover  she  corners 
at  first  chance,  and  it  is  then  "  marriage  or  no  market  "  with  this 
maid.  She  outplays  the  irate  Prince  of  Wales  by  sheer  loyalty  to 
his  rival :  "  'Twas  I,  not  Lacy,  stept  awry  ;  "  and  if  her  lover  be  to 
fall,  she  will  join  him  "  in  one  tomb."  When  it  comes  to  Lacy's 
desertion  of  her,  the  dramatist  fills  her  mouth  with  piety,  but  the  girl 
bubbles  through.  As  between  the  convent  and  the  court  she  vastly 
prefers  the  latter,  and  her  farewell  to  the  world  is  eloquent  of 
gowns.  In  spite  of  the  pother  with  which  she  welcomes  "  base 
attire,"  her  "flesh  is  frayle  "  ;  and  when  her  lover,  with  "enchant- 
ing face,"  comes  riding  back,  and  the  "  wedding-robes  are  in  the 
tailor's  hands,"  it  doesn't  take  Peggy  long  to  decide  between  "  God 
or  Lord  Lacy."  In  simple  dignity  she  is  most  like  her  Greenian 
sisters,  Ida  and  Angelica.  But  she  is  also  the  predecessor  of  many  a 
heroine  not  so  simple  as  men  have  thought  :  of  Alfrida  in  the  Knack, 
Bridget  in  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  Harriet  in  the  Alan  of  Mode, 
Dorinda  in  the  Beaux1  Stratagem,  Lucinda  in  the  Conscious  Lovers. 
As  for  her  lover,  his  type  is  that  of  Alfrida's  Ethenwald,  more 
manly  to  be  sure  than  he,  but  lacking  leagues  of  what  a  Lacy 
should  have  been.  Even  the  Post  is  at  pains  to  apologize  for  him. 
Still,  Lacy  excels  his  master  —  an  ordinary  Lothario  of  the  purple, 
noised  abroad  as  generous,  admired  of  his  associates  and  his 


430  Robert    Greene 

dramatic  creator,  but  of  unregal  stuff.  In  reality,  Edward  is  less 
magnanimous  than  his  counterpart  in  Lyly's  play.  If  he  appears 
more  ready  than  Alexander  was  to  yield  his  victim,  it  is  only  because 
a  keeper's  daughter  and  a  princess  are  "sisters  under  the  skin." 
The  Castile  Elinor  awaits  him  :  Edward  is  as  moral  as  a  jelly-fish  ; 
and  a  swap  of  mistresses  is  no  hardship.  The  characterization  of 
Warren  and  Ermsbie,  though  but  a  score  of  lines,  is  clear-cut. 
Blunt  Anglo-Saxons  they  are,  prompt  with  the  sword,  with  women 
dubious  —  a  complementary  pair.  Also  complementary  are  the 
fools — one  of  the  court,  the  other  of  the  home:  Rafe  the  jester, 
Miles  the  blunderer;  the  latter  halfway  between  vice  and  clown. 
Like  the  clown,  he  stimulates  progress  by  the  spur  of  his  stupid- 
ity ;  like  the  vice,  he  jogs  without  concern  to  his  predestined  place. 
With  Longtongue  and  Ragan  he  is  of  the  kin  of  disputatious  ser- 
vants, a  brother  to  Greene's  Jenkin,  Adam,  and  Slipper,  and,  like 
the  last  two,  a  "  philosopher  of  toast  and  ale."  Lentulo  of  the 
Rare  Triumphs  was  an  ancient  relative  of  his,  and,  like  him,  edu- 
cated in  that  school  whence  later  proceeded  the  Dogberrys  and 
their  cousins  german —  Poppey,  Curtail,  and  Mouse.  This  is  the 
stock  and  discipline  that  Kemp's  Gothamites  bewray  when  their 
tongues  blossom  into  counsel. 

Previous  Editions  and  the  Present  Text. —-The  first  quarto  is 
White's,  of  1594.  The  copy  in  the  British  Museum  (C.  34,  c.  37) 
lacks  all  after  44  from  the  words,  "  for  to  pleasure  "  (xv.  49) ;  that 
in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  library  "  lacks  a  leaf  between  A  3  and 
B,  and  one  at  end  "  (Grosart).  Dvce,  Ward,  and  Grosart  mention 
a  reprint  of  1599  ;  but  I  do  not  find  it  in  B.  M.  or  the  Bodleian. 
The  quarto  which  Dr.  Ward  supposes  to  be  of  1599  (viz.  Malone, 
226  in  the  Bodleian)  is  exactly  like  the  1630  quarto,  except  that  it 
lacks  the  title-page  and  is  badly  clipped.  The  attribution  to  1599 
seems  to  rest  upon  (i)  Malone's  Ms.  note  on  the  fly-leaf  of  1630 
quarto  (Bodl.  Malone,  227):  "See  the  edit,  of  1599  in  Vol.  69," 
and  (2)  the  hand-written  date,  1599  (probably,  also,  by  Malone)  on 
the  upper  right-hand  corner  of  the  first  page  of  the  quarto  contained 
in  the  volume  69,  which  is  the  Malone  226  mentioned  above.  But 
that  Malone  226  and  227  should  be  respectively  of  1599  and  1630, 
and,  nevertheless,  identical,  would  be  odd ;  especially  when  we 


Robert    Greene  431 

remember  that  the  copyright  had  been  transferred  from  Mrs.  White 
to  Mrs.  Aldee  in  1624,  and  that  Mrs.  Aldee's  publication  of  1630 
was  a  fresh  edition  "as  it  was  lately  plaid  by  the  Prince  Palatine 
his  servants."  I  think  that  the  supposed  1599  copy  is  of  1630. 
The  1630  edition  (another  copy  of  which  is  in  B.  M.)  varies  con- 
siderably from  the  original  of  1594.  The  copyright  passed  into 
Oulton's  hands  in  1640,  and  in  1655  a  new  edition  appeared. 
Modern  issues  are  those  of  Dodsley,  Dyce,  Ward,  and  Grosart 
(Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  G.),  the  last  of  which,  alone,  retains  the  original 
forms,  those  of  the  Chatsworth,  1594.  The  present  edition  follows 
the  B.  M.  quarto  of  1594,  and,  when  that  ends,  Grosart's  (Huth 
Library)  reprint  of  the  Chatsworth.  Variations  in  the  1630  quartos 
(Malone)  have  been  indicated  in  the  footnotes.  (3  I  stands  for  ed. 

1S94*  Q  3  for  l63°>  Q  4  f°r  1655. 

Since  most  of  the  emendations  made  by  preceding  editors  plead  as 
their  excuse  the  metrical  irregularity  of  the  quartos,  I  have  found  it 
necessary  to  justify  my  retention  of  the  original  text,  by  an  explana- 
tion of  Greene's  metrical  practice  in  this  play.  This  apologia, 
which,  in  some  degree,  applies  to  all  of  his  plays,  will  be  found  in 
the  Appendix.  We  should,  perhaps,  be  troubled  with  fewer  emen- 
dations of  the  Elizabethan  drama  if  we  could  bring  ourselves  to 
believe  that  playwrights  regulated  their  rhythms  more  frequently 
than  is  supposed,  by  dramatic  and  rhetorical  conditions  of  utterance ; 
and  that  the  plays  of  the  sixteenth  century  were  not  written  in  the 
eighteenth. 

CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY. 


SCR  OLL    OK  NAM  EN  TA  TION 


THE 

HONORABLE      HISTORIC 

of  frier  Bacon,  and  frier  Bongay. 

D     J 

As  it  was  plaid  by  her  Maiefties  feruants. 
Made  by  Robert  Greene  Maifter  of  Arts. 


V1GNE  TTE 


LONDON, 

Printed  for  Edward  White,  and  are  to  be  fold  at  his  fhop,  at 

the  little  North  dore  of  Poulcs,  at  the  figne  of 

the  Gun.      1594. 


CM..        <{-<>/,     ./£«V        '  ^4<^eU  0L&U*£t      Kt    (4^J  ''/^  ,-,',;,    ff.t  , 


"<^<-'    -M  ^.^ 


/         t  .     r       *     •  1r  , ,  7          *j          /-        -f— 

,  ..   f  x.       «'     if     £t*-/    i  *.<**.<  <.^-O»         t     C-t- 1  *  iT-<.  t  vt      W      /  •'  ^     'tx  v  t'-'t-    i         '   C^vt*  *  v^l-V3  C*t    / 

/** 


The  Persons  of  the  Play1 

HENRY  /^  Third. 

EDWARD,  Prince  of  Wales,  bis  Sonne. 
EMPEROUR  OF  GERMANIE. 
KING  OF  CASTILE. 
NED   LACIE,  £/?r/if  i?/0  Lincoln. 
JOHN   WARREN,  ^;7f  o/^  Sussex. 
WILL  ERMSBIE,  /7  Gentleman. 
RAPHE  SIMNELL,  /^  Kings  Foole. 
Frier  BACON. 

MILES,  Frier  Bacon.'  poore  Scboler. 
Frier  BUNG  AY. 

JAQUES  X^ANDERMAST,  a  Germaine. 
BURDEN,  Doctor  of  Oxford  and  Maister  of  Brazennose. 

MASON     ^  „  f  r\    f     i 

^,  >  Doctors  of  (Jxfora. 

CLEMENT] 

Gentlemen. 
SERLSBY    j 

Two  Scholars,   Their  Sonnes. 
The  KEEPER  of  Fresingfield. 

Thomas   )  ^ 

_  .  .      .   -  farmers  bonnes. 

Richard  \ 

Constable,  Post,  Lords,   Countrie  Clownes,  etc. 

ELINOR,  Daughter  to  Castile. 

MARGRET,  the  Keepers  daughter  of  Fresingficld. 

JONE,  a  Farmers  daughter. 

The  HOSTESSE  at  Henly,   Mistressc  of  the  Bell. 

A  DEVILL,  and  a  FIEND  like  HKRCUI.I-S  ;   a  DRAGON  shooting  fre ;   etc 

1  Nut  in  Otos. 


THE    HONOURABLE 

Historic   of  Frier   Bacon 


[Scene  First.1     /»,  or  near,  Fremingham\ 

DvC  fi 

Enter  PRINCE  EDWARD  -  malcontented,  with  LACY  earle  of  Lincoln,  JOHN 
WARREN  earle  of  Sussex,  and  ERMSBIE  gentleman  :  RAPH  SIMNELL  the 
kings  f  oo  le.  /»T 


Lade.    Why  lookes  my  lord  like  to  a  troubled  skie, 
When  heavens  bright  shine  is  shadow'd  with  a  fogge  ? 
Alate3  we  ran  the  deere,  and  through  the  lawndes 
Stript  4  with  our  nagges  the  loftie  frolicke  bucks 
That  scudded  fore  the  teisers  5  like  the  wind  :  5 

Nere  was  the  deere  of  merry  Fresingfield 
So  lustily  puld  down  by  jolly  mates, 
Nor  sharde  the  farmers  such  fat  venison, 
So  franckly  dealt,  this  hundred  yeares  before  ; 

Nor  have6  I  seene  my  lord  more  frolicke  in  the  chace;  IO 

And  now"  —  changde  to  a  melancholic  dumpe  ? 

IVarren.    After  the  prince  got  to  the  keepers  lodge, 
And  had  been  jocand  in  the  house  awhile, 
Tossing  of8  ale  and  milke  in  countrie  cannes  : 

1  Scenes  not  numbered  in  Qtos.      Localities  as  indicated  by  W.,  in  general  accepted.      Fram- 
lingham  and  Fressingfield,  —  "  Suffolke  side."      Sc.  iv.  33.  2Q  I,  'Edward  the  first? 

8  Of  late.     Cf.  Ef.  to  Farewell  to  Folly  (S.  R.  1587).  4  Outstripped. 

5  Hounds  that  roused  and  teased  the  game.      Cf.   Play  of  W  ether,  11.  292-293. 

6  '  Nor  have,'  Dy.  and  W.,  separate  line;    but  j^tos.  ,  a  senarius  as  here.      For  metres  see 
Appendix  ;    for  this  D.  3  h. 

7  Qtos.  and  eds.  :   no  dash,  but  period  after  'dumpe.'      Appendix  C,  I  />. 

8  Dy.  and  W.,  'off.1 

435 


436  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Whether  it  was  the  countries  sweete  content,  15 

Or  els  the  bonny  damsell  fild  us  drinke 

That  seemd  so  stately  in  her  stammell 1  red, 

Or  that  a  qualme  did  crosse  his  stomacke  then,  — 

But  straight  he-  fell  into  his  passions. 

Ermsbie.    Sirra  Raphe,  what  say  you  to  your  maister,  20 

Shall  he  thus  all  amort2  live  malecontent  ? 

Raphe.  Heerest  thou,  Ned  ?  —  Nay,  looke  if  hee  will  speake  to 
me  ! 

Edward.    What  sayst  thou  to  me,  foole  ? 

Raphe.  I  preethee,  tell  me,  Ned,  art  thou  in  love  with  the  keepers 
daughter  ?  26 

Edward.    How  if  I  be,  what  then  ? 

Raphe.    Why,  then,  sirha,  He  teach  thee  how  to  deceive  Love. 

Edward.     How,  Raphe  ? 

Raphe.  Marrie  sirha  Ned,  thou  shalt  put  on  my  cap  and  my 
coat  and  my  dagger,3  and  I  will  put  on  thy  clothes  and  thy  sword  : 
and  so  thou  shalt  be  my  foole.  /  \  'a,  32 

Edivard.    And  what  of  this  ? 

Raphe.  Why,  so  thou  shalt  beguile  Love ;  for  Love  is  such  a 
proud  scab,  that  he  will  never  meddle  with  fooles  nor  children.  Is 
not  Raphes  counsel  good,  Ned  ?  36 

Edward.    Tell  me,   Ned  Lacie,  didst  thou  marke  the  mayd, 
How  lively4  in  her  country-weedes  she  lookt  ? 
A  bonier  wench  all  SufFolke  cannot  yceld  :  — 
All  SufFolke!   nay,  all  England  holds  none  such.  40 

Raphe.    Sirha  Will  Ermsby,  Ned  is  deceived. 

Ermsbie.    Why,  Raphe  ? 

Raphe.  He  saies  all  England  hath  no  such,  and  I  say,  and  He 
stand  to  it,  there  is  one  better  in  Warwickshire. 

1  A    coarse   woollen   cloth  5    cf.    Eastiv.    Hoe   "  stammel   petticoat,"    in   contempt.      Here 
apparently  of  the   kind   of  red  ;   so,    perhaps,    Alleyn's   Inventory  (Collier's  Mems.    of  E.  A.y 
Shakesp.  Soc.   1841 )  "  A  stammel  cloke  with  gould  lace." 

2  a  la  mart,  dejected.      So,  also,  Fortunatus   in  WVVy  Beguiled  "  Why,  how  now,  Sophos  r 
all  amort  ?  "  (  Hawkins,  Orig.  Eng.  Drama,  3 :  358  ) ;    Old  ff^i-vcs'   Tale,  I.I. 

8  Probably  a  survival  of  the  Vice's  weapon  of  lath. 

*  L)y.,  G.,  W.,  'lovely.'  But  Q  3,  which  in  many  other  particulars  corrects  {,)  I, 
retains  'lively  '  ;  so  Do. 


i]  Frier  Bacon*  437 

Warren.    How  proovest  thou  that,  Raphe  ?  45 

Raphe.  Why,  is  not  the  abbot  a  learned  man,  and  hath  red 
many  bookes,  and  thinkest  thou  he  hath  not  more  learning  than 
thou  to  choose  a  bonny  wench  ?  yes,  I  warrant  thee,  by  his  whole 
grammer. 

Ermsby.    A  good  reason,  Raphe.  50 

Edward.    I  tell  the[e],  Lacie,  that  her  sparkling  eyes 
Doe  lighten  forth  sweet  Loves  alluring  fire  ; 
And  in  her  tresses  she  doth  fold  the  lookes 
Of  such  as  gaze  upon  her  golden  haire  ; 

Her  bashfull  white,  mixt  with  the  mornings  red,  55 

Luna  doth  boast  upon  her  lovely  cheekes  ; 
Her  front  is  Beauties  table,1  where  she  paints 
The  glories  of  her  gorgious  excellence  ; 
Her  teeth  are  shelves  of  pretious  margarites, 

Richly  enclosed  with  ruddie  curroll  cleves.2  60 

Tush,  Lacie,  she  is  Beauties  overmatch, 
If  thou  survaist  her  curious  imagerie.3 

Lacie.    I  grant,  my  lord,  the  damsell  is  as  faire 
As  simple  Suffolks  homely  towns  can  yeeld  : 

But  in  the  court  be  quainter4  dames  than  she,  65 

Whose  faces  are  enricht  with  honours  taint,5 
Whose  bewties  stand  upon  the  stage  of  fame, 
And  vaunt  their  trophies  in  the  Courts  of  Love. 

Ediv.    Ah,  Ned,  but  hadst  thou  watcht  her  as  my  self, 
And  scene  the  secret  bewties  of  the  maid,  70 

Their  courtly  coinesse  were  but  foolery. 

Ermsbie.    Why,  how  watcht  you  her,  my  lord  ? 

Edward.    When  as  she  swept  like  Venus  through  the  house,  — 
And  in  her  shape  fast  foulded  up  my  thoughtes,  — 
Into  the  milkhouse  went  I  with  the  maid,  75 

And  there  amongst  the  cream-boles  she  did  shine 
As  Pallace  'mongst  her  princely  huswiferie  : 
She  turnd  her  smockc  over  her  lilly  armes, 
And  divd  them  into  milke  to  run  her  cheese  ; 

1  tablet.  2  coral  cliffs.  8  The  rare  quality  of  her  appearance;   cf.  viii.  1 6. 

4  more  exquisite  ;  rarer  ;  so  iii.  77.       6  tint.      fi  {,)  I  has  headline  Tie  .  .  .  Ra.-on  on  each  page. 


438  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

But,  whiter  than  the  milke,  her  cristall  skin,  80 

Checked  with  lines  of  azur,  made  her  blush  J 

That  art  or  nature  durst  bring  for  compare. 

Ermsbie,2  if  thou  hadst  scene,  as  I  did  note  it  well, 

How  Bewtie  plaid  the  huswife,  how  this  girle, 

Like  Lucrece,  laid  her  fingers  to  the  worke,  85 

Thou  wouldst  with  Tarquine  hazard  Roome  and  all 

To  win  the  lovely  mayd  of  Fresingfield. 

Raphe.    Sirha  Ned,  wouldst  faine  have  her? 

Edward.    I,3  Raphe. 

Raphe,  Why,  Ned,  I  have  laid  the  plot  in  my  head  ;  thou  shalt 
have  her  alreadie.  91 

Edward.    He  give  thee  a  new  coat,  and3  learne  me  that. 

Raphe.  Why,  sirra  Ned,  weel  ride  to  Oxford  to  Frier  Bacon  : 
oh,  he  is  a  brave  scholler,  sirra ;  they  say  he  is  a  brave  nigromancer, 
that  he  can  make  women  of  devils,  and  hee  can  juggle  cats  into 
costermongers.  96 

Ediuard.    And  how  then,  Raphe  ? 

Raphe.  Marry,  sirrha,  thou  shalt  go  to  him:  and  because4  thy 
father  Harry  shall  not  misse  thee,  hee  shall  turne  me  into  thee ;  and 
He  to  the  court,  and  lie  prince  it  out ;  and  he  shall  make  thee  either 
a  silken  purse  full  of  gold,  or  else  a  fine  wrought  smocke.  101 

Edward.    But  how  shall  I  have  the  mayd  ? 

Raphe.  Marry,  sirha,  if  thou  beest  a  silken  purse  full  of  gold, 
then  on  Sundaies  sheele  hang  thee  by  her  side,  and  you  must  not 
say  a  word.  Now,  sir,  when  she  comes  into  a  great  prease5  of 
people,  for  feare  of  the  cut-purse,  on  a  sodaine  sheele  swap6  thee 
into  her  plackerd,"  then,  sirrha,  being  there,  you  may  plead  for 
your  selfe.  108 

Ermsbie.    Excellent  pollicie  ! 

Ediuard.    But  how  if  I  be  a  wrought  smocke  ?  I IO 

Raphe.  Then  sheele  put  thee  into  her  chest  and  lay  thee  into 
lavender,  and  upon  some  good  day  sheele  put  thee  on,  and  at  night 

1  "  Would  have  put  to  the  blush  any  woman  that  art,"  etc. 

2  Appendix  D,  T,  />.  3  '  I     tor  'ay  '  ;    'and  '  for  'an,'  as  frequently. 
4  so  that  ;   cf.   Matthew  xx.   31.  5  press. 

6  swape.      Frov.  English  for  'sweep.'  7  placket  :   here  pocket. 


i]  Frier  Bacon  439 

when  you  go  to  bed,  then  being  turnt  from  a  smocke  to  a  man,  you 
may  make  up  the  match. 

Lade.    Wonderfully  wisely  counselled,  Raphe.  1 1  5 

Edward.    Raphe  shall  have  a  new  coate. 

Raphe.    God  thanke  you  when  I  have  it  on  my  backe,  Ned. 

Edward.    Lacie,  the  toole  hath  laid  a  perfect  plot ; 
For  why  our  countrie  Margret  is  so  coy, 

And  standes  so  much  upon  her  honest  pointes,  120 

That  marriage,  or  no  market  with  the  mayd. 
Ermsbie,  it  must  be  nigroma[n]  ticke  spels 
And  charmes  of  art  that  must  inchaine  her  love, 
Or  else  shall  Edward  never  win  the  girle. 

Therefore,  my  wags,  weele  horse  us  in  the  morne,  125 

And  post  to  Oxford  to  this  jolly  frier: 
Bacon  shall  by  his  magicke  doe  this  deed. 

Warren.    Content,  my  lord  ;  and  thats  a  speedy  way 
To  weane  these  head-strong  puppies  from  the  teat. 

Edward.    I  am  unknowne,  not  taken  for  the  prince;  130 

They  onely  deeme  us  frolicke  courtiers, 
That  revell  thus  among  our  lieges  game, — 
Therefore  I  have  devis'd  a  pollicie  : 
Lacie,  thou  knowst  next  Friday  is  S.  James,1 

And  then  the  country  flockes  to  Harlston  2  faire  :  135 

Then  will  the  keepers  daughter  frolicke  there, 
And  over-shine  the  troupe  of  all  the  maids 
That  come  to  see  and  to  be  scene  that  day. 
Haunt  thee  disguisd  among  the  countrie-svvaines, 
Feign  thart  a  farmers  sonne,  not  far  from  thence,  140 

Espie  her  loves,  and  who  she  likcth  best : 
Coat3  him,  and  court  her,  to  controll  the  clowne ; 
Say  that  the  courtier  tyred  all  in  greene, 
That  helpt  her  handsomly  to  run  her  cheese, 
And  fild  her  fathers  lodge  with  venison,  145 

1  See  p.  413.  ~  Four  and  one-half  miles  north  of  FressingfiYU. 

a  I)y.  and  G.,  'to  keep  alongside  of,'  Fr.  <  J/v-yrr.  W.  explains,  'to  pass'  and  cites 
Hiimlrt,  II.  ii.  306.  Derivation  uncertain  ;  hut  the  word  is  here  figuratively  used  ;  as  if  the 
Prince  should  say,  —  "  As  a  greyhound  in  coursing  goeth  endways  by  his  fellow  and  giveth 
the  hare  a  turn,  so  do  thou  outstrip  the  clown  (head  him  oft  ),  court  Margaret  (give  her  the 


440  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Commends  him,  and  sends  fairings  to  herselfe. 
Buy  some  thing  worthie  of  her  parentage, 
Not  worth  her  beautie ;   for,  Lacie,  then  the  faire 
AfYoords  no  Jewell  fitting  for  the  mayd  : 

And  when  thou  talkest  of  me,  note  if  she  blush:  150 

Oh  then  she  loves  ;  but  if  her  cheekes  waxe  pale, 
Disdaine  it  is.      Lacie,  send  how  she  fares, 
">     And  spare  no  time  nor  cost  to  win  her  loves. 

Lade.    I  will,  my  lord,  so  execute  this  charge 
As  if  that  Lacie  were  in  love  with  her.  155 

Edward.    Send  letters  speedily  to  Oxford  of  the  newes. 

Raphe.  And,  sirha  Lacie,  buy  me  a  thousand  thousand  million 
of  fine  bels. 

Lacie.    What  wilt  thou  do  with  them,  Raphe?  159 

Raphe.  Mary,  every  time  that  Ned  sighs  for  the  keepers  daughter, 
He  tie  a  bell  about  him  :  and  so  within  three  or  foure  daies  I  will 
send  word  to  his  father  Harry,  that  his  sonne,  and  my  maister  Ned, 
is  become  Loves  morris  dance.1 

Edward.    Well,  Lacie,  look  with  care  unto  thy  charge, 
And  I  will  haste  to  Oxford  to  the  frier,  165 

That  he  by  art  and  thou  by  secret  gifts 
Maist  make  me  lord  of  merrie  Fresingfield. 

Lacie.    God  send  your  honour  your2  harts  desire.  Exeunt. 


[Scene  Second.     Frier  Bacons  cell  at  Brazennose] 

Enter  Frier  BACON,  with  MILES,  his  poore  scholer,  with  bookes  under  bis  arme  ; 
with  them  BURDEN,  MASON,  CLEMENT,  three  Doctors.    (•>•*•?. 

Bacon.    Miles,  where  are  you  ? 

Miles.     Hie  sum,  doctissime  et  reverendissime  doctor. 

Bacon.    Attullsti  nos  3  libros  meos  de  necromantia  ? 

turn),  and  thus  cut  him  out."  See  Nciv  En$r.  Diet,  on  Turberville's  Generic,  246  (1575)  ; 
and  distinction  between  'coring'  and  'coasting'  or  going  alongside  of.  Professor  Wagner's 
Dcr  ah^rfsante  sol!  sifh  an  die  seite  des  liindlicbcn  liebbabe.rs  beften,  so  dass  ihn  dieser  nicht  los 
iverden  kann  is  somewhat  amusing.  Cf.  "  crost,  controulde  "  2  A.  IV.  A.  Sc.  xii,  1.  88. 

1  I)y.  reads  'dancer.'      But  why  not  a  synecdoche  ?      "  Ned  is  become  a  whole  morris-dance 
of  himself."  2  Appendix  B,   I.       I)y.  queries  '^//your.'  3  n~s  =  nostros.      Fleay. 


ii]  Frier  Bacon  441 

Miles.    Ecce  quam  bonum  et  quam  jucundum  habit  are  l  libros  in  unum  ! 

Bacon.    Now,  maisters  of  our  academicke  state,  5 

That  rule  in  Oxford,  Vizroies  in  your  place, 
Whose  heads  containe  maps  of  the  liberall  arts, 
Spending  your  time  in  deapth  of  learned  skill, 
Why  flocke  you  thus  to  Bacons  secret  cell, 

A  frier  newly  stalde  in  Brazennose  ?  10 

Say  whats  your  mind,  that  I  may  make  replie. 

Burden.    Bacon,  we  hear  that  long  we  have  suspect, 
That  thou  art  read  in  magicks  mysterie  : 
In  piromancie,  to  divine  by  flames  ; 

To  tell,  by  hadromaticke2  ebbes  and  tides;  15 

By  aeromancie  to  discover  doubts, 
To  plaine  out  questions,  as  Apollo  did. 

Bacon.    Well,  Maister  Burden,  what  of  all3  this  ? 

Miles.  Marie,  sir,  he  doth  but  fulfill,  by  rehearsing  of  these 
names,  the  fable  of  the  Fox  and  the  Grapes  :  that  which  is  above 
us  pertains  nothing  to  us.  21 

Burden.    I  tell  thee,  Bacon,  Oxford  makes  report, 
Nay,  England,  and  the  court  of  Henrie  saies, 
Th'  art  making  of  a  brazen  head  by  art, 

Which  shall  unfold  strange  doubts  and  aphorismes,  25 

And  read  a  lecture  in  philosophic; 
And,  by  the  helpe  of  divels  and  ghastly  fiends, 
Thou  meanst,  ere  many  yeares  or  daies  be  past, 
To  compasse  England  with  a  wall  of  brasse. 

Bacon.    And  what  of  this  ?  30 

Allies.  What  of  this,  maister  !  why,  he  doth  speak  mystically  : 
for  he  knowes,  if  your  skill  faile  to  make  a  brazen  head,  yet  Mother 
Waters  strong  ale  will  fit  his  turne  to  make  him  have  a  copper-nose. 

Clement.    Bacon,  we  come  not  greeving  at  thy  skill, 
But  joieing  that  our  academic  yeelds  35 

A  man  supposde  the  woonder  of  the  world  : 
For  if  thy  cunning  worke  these  myracles, 
England  and  Europe  shall  admire  thy  fame, 

1  Q  i,  babitarci.  2  For  divination   by  fire,  water  (hydromancy ),  and  air,  see 

Ward's  admirable  Old  Engl'nb  Drama,  pp.  222-123.  8  Appendix  B,  I. 


442  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

And  Oxford  shall  in  characters  of  brasse, 

And  statues,  such  as  were  built  up  in  Rome,  40 

Eternize  Frier  Bacon  for  his  art. 

Mason.    Then,  gentle  Frier,  tell  us  thy  intent. 

Bacon.    Seeing  you  come  as  friends  unto  the  frier, 
Resolve  you,  doctors,  Bacon  can  by  bookes 

Make  storming  Boreas  thunder  from  his  cave,  45 

And  dimme  faire  Luna  to  a  darke  eclipse. 
The  great  arch-ruler,  potentate  of  hell, 
Trembles  when  Bacon  bids  him,  or  his  fiends, 
Bow  to  the  force  of  his  pentageron.1 

What  art  can  worke,  the  frolicke  frier  knowes ;  50 

And  therefore  will  I  turne  my  magicke  bookes, 
And  straine  out  nigromancie  to  the  deepe. 
I  have  contrivd  and  framde  a  head  of  brasse, 
(I  made  Belcephon  2  hammer  out  the  stuffe) 

And  that  by  art  shall  read  Philosophic  :  55 

And  I  will  strengthen  England  by  my  skill, 
That  if  ten  Caesars  livd  and  raignd  in  Rome, 
With  all  the  legions  Europe  doth  containe, 
They  should  not  touch  a  grasse  of  English  ground ; 
The  worke  that  Ninus  reard  at  Babylon,  60 

The  brazen  walles  framde  by  Semiramis, 
Carvd  out  like  to  the  portall  of  the  sunne, 
Shall  not  be  such  as  rings  the  English  strond 
From  Dover  to  the  market-place  of  Rie. 

Burden.    Is  this  possible  ?  65 

Miles.    He  bring  ye  t[w]o  or  three  witnesses. 

Burden.    What  be  those  ? 

Miles.    Marry,  sir,  three  or  foure  as  honest  divels  and  good  com- 
panions as  any  be  in  hell. 

Mason.    No  doubt  but  magicke  may  doe  much  in  this  ;  70 

For  he  that  reades  but  mathematicke  3  rules 

1  Probably  for  '  pentagonon  '   (cf.  xiii.  92)  ;   here  of  the  pentacle  or  pentagram,  the  five- 
rayed  star  used  in  magic  as  a  defence  against  demons. 

2  Belcephon  ;    cf.   Kxodus  xiv.  2  5    Numbers  xxxiii.   7.      Ward. 

3  "  This  damnable  art  mathematical  "  (Bp.  Hooker,  ff^orts,  i:  330),  meaning 'astrological.' 


n]  Frier  Bacon  443 

Shall  finde  conclusions  that  availe  to  work 
Wonders  that  passe  the  common  sense  of  men. 

Burden.    But  Bacon  roves  1  a  bow  beyond  his  reach, 
And  tels  of  more  than  magicke  can  performe,  75 

Thinking  to  get  a  fame  by  fooleries. 
Have  I  not  past  as  farre  in  state  of  schooles, 
And  red  of  many  secrets  ?  yet  to  thinke 
That  heads  of  brasse  can  utter  any  voice, 

Or  more,  to  tell  of  deepe  philosophic,  80 

This  is  a  fable  ./Esop  had  forgot. 

Bacon.    Burden,  thou  wrongst  me  in  detracting  thus; 
Bacon  loves  not  to  stuffe  himselfe  with  lies. 
But  tell  me  fore  these  doctors,  if  thou  dare, 
Of  certaine  questions  I  shall  move  to  thee.  85 

Burden.    I  will :   aske  what  thou  can. 

Miles.  Marrie,  sir,  heele  straight  be  on  your  pickpacke  to  knowe 
whether  the  feminine  or  the  masculin  gender  be  most  worthie. 

Bacon.  Were  you  not  yesterday,  Maister  Burden,  at  Henly  upon 
the  Thembs?  90 

Burden.    I  was  :   what  then  ? 

Bacon.    What  booke  studied  you  thereon  all  night  ? 

Burden.    I  !   none  at  all ;   I  red  not  there  a  line. 

Bacon.    Then,  doctors,  Frier  Bacons  art  knowes  nought. 

Clement.  What  say  you  to  this,  Maister  Burden  ?  doth  hee  not 
touch  you  ?  96 

Burden.    I  passe  not  of  his  frivolous  speeches. 

Miles.  Nay,  Master  Burden,  my  maister,  ere  hee  hath  done  with 
you,  will  turne  you  from  a  doctor  to  a  dunce,  and  shake  you  so 
small,  that  he  will  leave  no  more  learning  in  you  than  is  in  Balaams 
asse.  101 

Bacon.    Maisters,  for  that  learned  Burdens  skill  is  deepe, 
And  sore  he  doubts  of  Bacons  cabalisme, 
I'll  shew  you  why  he  haunts  to  Henly  oft : 

Not,  doctors,  for  to  tast  the  fragrant  aire,  105 

But  there  to  spend  the  night  in  alcumie, 

1  Either  -v.  tr.  :  '  draws '  the  long  bow  ;  or  i>.  intr.  :  '  ventures  in  imagination  '  a  bow- 
shot beyond  his  capability. 


444  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

To  multiplie  with  secret  spels  of  art ; 

Thus  privat  steales  he  learning  from  us  all. 

To  proove  my  sayings  true,  He  shew  you  straight 

The  booke  he  keepes  at  Henly  for  himselfe.  110 

Miles.    Nay,  now  my  maister  goes  to  conjuration,  take  heed. 

Bacon.    Maisters,1  stand   still,  feare  not,  He  shewe   you  but   his 

booke. 

Here  be  conjures. 

Per  omnes  deos  infernales,  Belcephon  !  114 

Enter  a  Woman  with  a  shoulder  of  mutton  on  a  spit,  and  a  Devill. 

Miles.  Oh,  maister,  cease  your  conjuration,  or  you  spoile  all  ; 
for  heeres  a  shee  divell  come  with  a  shoulder  of  mutton  on  a  spit : 
you  have  mard  the  divels  supper;  but  no  doubt  hee  thinkes  our 
colledge  fare  is  slender,  and  so  hath  sent  you  his  cooke  with  a 
shoulder  of  mutton,  to  make  it  exceed. 

Hostesse.    Oh,  where  am  I,  or  whats  become  of  me  ?  120 

Bacon.    What  art  thou  ? 

Hostesse.    Hostesse  at  Henly,  mistresse  of  the  Bell. 

Bacon.    How  earnest  thou  heere  ? 

Hostesse.    As  I  was  in  the  kitchen  mongst  the  maydes, 
Spitting  the  meate  against2  supper  for  my  guesse,2  125 

A  motion  mooved  me  to  looke  forth  of  dore. 
No  sooner  had  I  pried  into  the  yard, 
But  straight  a  whirlewind  hoisted  me  from  thence, 
And  mounted  me  aloft  unto  the  cloudes. 

As  in  a  trance  I  thought  nor  feared  nought,  130 

Nor  know  I  where  or  whether  I  was  tane, 
Nor  where  I  am,  nor  what  these  persons  be. 

Bacon.    No  ?   know  you  not  Maister  Burden  ? 

Hostesse.    O  yes,  good  sir,  he  is  my  daily  guest.  — 
What,  Maister  Burden  !   twas  but  yesternight  135 

That  you  and  I  at  Henly  plaid  at  cardes. 

1  Appendix  D,  3  h. 

2  So  Qtos.      Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  ''gainst.'      On  'guesse'  for  'guests,'    Dy.  quotes  Chamber- 
lain's Pharonnida  (1659),  Bk.    IV.  C.  iii.  p.  53  :    "The  empty  tables   stood  for   never  guess 
came  there." 


n]  Frier  Bacon  445 

Burden.  I  knowe  not  what  we  did.  —  A  poxe  of  all  conjuring 
friars  ! 

Clement.    Now,  jolly  Frier,  tell  us,  is  this  the  booke 
That  Burden  is  so  carefull  to  looke  on  ? 1  140 

Bacon.    It  is.  —  But,  Burden,  tell  me  now, 
Thinkest  thou  that  Bacons  nicromanticke  skill 
Cannot  performe  his  head  and  wall  of  brasse, 
When  he  can  fetch  thine  hostesse  in  such  post  ?  144 

Miles.  He  warrant  you,  maister,  if  Maister  Burden  could  conjure 
as  well  as  you,  hee  would  have  his  booke  everie  night  from  Henly 
to  study  on  at  Oxford. 

Mason.    Burden,  what,  are  you  mated  by  this  frolicke  frier  ?  — 
Looke  how  he  droops;   his  guiltie  conscience 
Drives  him  to  bash,2  and  makes  his  hostesse  blush.  150 

Bacon.    Well,  mistres,  for  I  wil  not  have  you  mist, 
You  shall  to  Henly  to  cheere  up  your  guests 
Fore  supper  ginne.  —  Burden,  bid  her  adew  ; 
Say  farewell  to  your  hostesse  fore  she  goes.  — 
Sirha,  away,  and  set  her  safe  at  home.  155 

Hostesse.    Maister  Burden,  when  shall  we  see  you  at  Henly  ? 3 

Exeunt  HOSTESSE  and  the  Devill. 

Burden.    The  devill  take  thee  and  Henly  too. 

Miles.    Maister,  shall  I  make  a  good  motion  ? 

Bacon.    Whats  that  ?  159 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  nowe  that  my  hostesse  is  gone  to  provide  sup- 
per, conjure  up  another  spirite,  and  send  Doctor  Burden  flying  after. 

Bacon.  Thus,  rulers  of  our  accademicke  state, 
You  have  scene  the  frier  frame  his  art  by  proofe ; 
And  as  the  colledge  called  Brazennose 

Is  under  him,  and  he  the  Maister4  there,  165 

So  surely  shall  this  head  of  brasse  be  framde, 
And  yeelde  forth  strange  and  uncoth  aphorismes  ; 

1  Q  I  has  11.  139-140  in  prose;   but  Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  verse. 

2  Be  abashed.     So  Tullie's   Lo-ve  :  "  Like  Diana  when  she  basht  at  Action's  presence"  ; 
and  Orpbarion  (Grosart's  Greene,  VII.   115  and  XII.   50). 

8  Line  156  :   Appendix  A,  3  ;   and  D,  I. 

*  Properly  principal.      In  Bacon's  day  Brasenose  College  was  not  yet  founded. 


446  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

And  Hell  and  Heccate  1  shall  faile  the  frier, 
But  I  will  circle  England  round  with  brasse. 

Miles.    So  be  it,  et  nunc  et  semper,  Amen.  Exeunt  omnes.       170 

[Scene  Third.     Harlston  FaireJ] 

Enter  MARGRET,  the  faire  mayd  of  Fresingjield,  with  THOMAS,    [RICHARD] 
and  JONE,  and  other  dowries  ,-  LACIE  disguised  in  countrie  apparell. 

Thomas.  By  my  troth,  Margret,  heeres  a  wether  is  able  to  make 
a  man  call  his  father  whorson  :  if  this  wether  hold,  wee  shall  have  hay 
good  cheape,  and  butter  and  cheese  at  Harlston  will  beare  no  price. 

Margret.    Thomas,  maides,  when  they  come  to  see  the  faire, 
Count  not  to  make  a  cope2  for  dearth  of  hay  :  5 

When  we  have  turnd  our  butter  to  the  salt, 
And  set  our  cheese  safely  3  upon  the  rackes, 
Then  let  our  fathers  prise  4  it  as  they  please. 
We  countrie  sluts  of  merry  Fresingfield 

Come  to  buy  needlesse  noughts  to  make  us  fine,  10 

And  looke  that  yong  men  should  be  francke5  this  day, 
And  court  us  with  such  fairings  as  they  can. 
Phoebus  is  blythe,  and  frolicke  lookes  from  heaven, 
As  when  he  courted  lovely  Semele,6 

Swearing  the  pedlers  shall  have  emptie  packs,  15 

If  that  faire  wether  may  make  chapmen  buy. 

Lade.     But,  lovely  Peggie,  Semele  is  dead, 
And  therefore  Phoebus  from  his  pallace  pries, 
And,  seeing  such  a  sweet  and  seemly  saint, 
Shewes  all  his  glories  for  to  court  your  selfe.  20 

Margret.    This  is  a  fairing,  gentle  sir,  indeed, 
To  sooth  me  up  with  such  smooth  flatterie ; 
But  learne  of  me,  your  scoffe's  ~  to  [o]  broad  before.  — 

1  Wagner  would  read,  "  And  hell  and  Hecat  shall  the  friar  fail,"  for  "  Hecate  ist  sonst  stets 
•ziveisi/big."  Wrong.  Ward  cites  for  the  trisyllable,  Shakesp.,  /  H.  J7!. ,  III.  ii.  64,  and 
Milton,  Comus,  v.  535.  2  bargain.  3  Q  4  omits.  Appendix  A,  i. 

4  So  Qtos.  i,  3,  4  ;  = '  price,'  not  'prize,'  nor  as  in  xiii.  41.  5  generous. 

6  Margret's  '  mythological '  slips  are  not  to  be  set  down  to  her  rustic  schooling  5  for  Lacie's 
'  mythology  '  is  no  better  ;  nor  Greene's.  7  So  Q  3.  £)  i,  scojfes.  '  Your  irony 

is  evident  on  the  face  of  it.' 


HI]  Frier  Bacon  447 

Well,  Jone,  our  bewties1  must  abide  their  jestes  ; 

We  serve  the  turne  in  jolly  Fresingfield.  25 

Jone.    Margret,2  a  farmers  daughter  for  a  farmers  son  : 
I  warrant  you,  the  meanest  of  us  both 
Shall  have  a  mate  to  lead  us  from  the  church. 
But,  Thomas,  whats  the  newes  ?   what,  in  a  dumpe  ? 
Give  me  your  hand,  we  are  neere  a  pedlers  shop, —  30 

Out  with  your  purse,  we  must  have  fairings  now. 

Thomas.  Faith,  Jone,  and  shall :  He  bestow  a  fairing  on  you,  and 
then  we  will  to  the  tavern,  and  snap  off  a  pint  of  wine  or  two. 

All  this  while  LACIE  whispers  MARGRET  in  the  eare. 

Margret.  Whence  are  you,  sir  ?  of  Suffolke  ?  for  your  tearmes 
Are  finer  than  the  common  sort  of  men.3  35 

Lade.    Faith,  lovely  girle,  I  am  of  Heckles4  by, 
Your  neighbour,  not  above  six  miles  from  hence, 
A  farmers  sonne,  that  never  was  so  quaint5 
But  that  he  could  do  courtesie  to  such  dames. 

But  trust  me,  Margret,  I  am  sent  in  charge  40 

From  him  that  reveld  in  your  fathers  house, 
And  fild  his  lodge  with  cheere  and  venison, 
'Tyred  in  green  ;   he  sent  you  this  rich  purse, 
His  token  that  he  helpt  you  run  your  cheese, 
And  in  the  milkhouse  chatted  with  your  selfe.  45 

Margret.    To  me  ?      You  forget  your  selfe.6 

Lade.    Women  are  often  weake  in  memorie. 

Margret.    Oh,  pardon  sir,  I  call  to  mind  the  man  : 
Twere  little  manners  to  refuse  his  gift, 

And  yet  I  hope  he  sends  it  not  for  love;  50 

For  we  have  little  leisure  to  debate  of  that.7 

Jone.    What,  Margret  !   blush  not  :   mayds  must  have  their  loves. 

1  Q  3,    'beauties.'      W.  changes  to  '  duties  '(?).  "  Appendix  D,  3  b. 

8  Lines  34,  35,  as  prose  in  },)  I.  *  On  the  northern  border  of  Suffolk. 

6  W.  explains  'shy  '  ;  but  perhaps  the  word  here  means  '  affectedly  nice'  ;  in  cant  phrase, 
'stuck-up.'  Cf.  Spenser,  F.  i^,  III.  vii.  10  (Century). 

6  So  Qtos.  and  G.  "To  me  ?  "  says  M.  with  (affected  ?)  surprise.  "  Surely  you  mistake." 
"Ah,  just  like  others  of  your  sex,"  retorts  L.,  "oblivious  when  you  please."  "Well," 
acknowledges  M.,  "  I  do  remember  the  man  ;  but  have  we  time  to  waste  on  bis  attentions  ?  " 
Do.,  Dy.,  and  W.  assign  "  You  .  .  .  self"  to  Lacie  ;  but  is  that  necessary  ?  Appendix  C,  a  />. 

1  Appendix  D,  3  a. 


448  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Thomas.  Nay,  by  the  masse,  she  lookes  pale  as  if  she  were 
angrie.  54 

Richard.  Sirha,  are  you  of  Beckls  ?  I  pray,  how  dooth  Good- 
man Cob  ?  my  father  bought  a  horse  of  him.  — He  tell  you  Mar- 
gret,  a  were  good  to  be  a  gentlemans  jade,  for  of  all  things  the  foule 
hilding  could  not  abide  a  doongcart. 

Margret  \aside~\ .    How  different  is  this  farmer  from  the  rest 
That  earst  as  yet  hath  pleasd  my  wandring  sight !  60 

His  words  are  wittie,  quickened  with  a  smile, 
His  courtesie  gentle,  smelling  of  the  court ; 
Facill  and  debonaire  in  all  his  deeds  ; 
Proportiond  as  was  Paris,  when,  in  gray, 

He  courted  .^Enon  in  the  vale  by  Troy.  65 

Great  lords  have  come  and  pleaded  for  my  love  : 
Who  but  the  keepers  lasse  of  Fresingfield  ? 
And  yet  me  thinks  this  farmers  jolly  sonne 
Passeth  the  prowdest  that  hath  pleasd  mine  eye. 
But,  Peg,  disclose  not  that  thou  art  in  love,  70 

And  shew  as  yet  no  sign  of  love  to  him, 
Although  thou  well  wouldst  wish  him  for  thy  love  ; 
Keepe  that  to  thee  till  time  doth  serve  thy  turne, 
To  shew  the  greefe  wherein  thy  heart  doth  burne.  — 
Come,  Jone  and  Thomas,  shall  we  to  the  faire  ? —  75 

You,  Beckls  man,  will  not  forsake  us  now  ? 

Lade.    Not  whilst  I  may  have  such  quaint  girls  as  you. 

Margret.    Well,  if  you  chaunce  to  come  by  Fresingfield, 
Make  but  a  step  into  the  keepers  lodge,1 

And  such  poore  fare  as  woodmen  can  affoord,  80 

Butter  and  cheese,  creame  and  fat  venison, 
You  shall  have  store,  and  welcome  therewithall. 

Lade.    Gramarcies,  Peggie ;   looke  for  me  eare  long. 

Exeunt  omnes. 

1  Appendix  A,  2. 


iv]  Frier  Bacon  449 

[Scene  Fourth.      The  Court  at  Hampton  House. ~\ 

Enter  HENRY  the  third,  the  EMI-EROUR,  the  KING  OF  CASTILE,  ELINOR,  his 
daughter,  JAQUES  VAN  PER  MAST  a  Germaine. 

Henrie.    Great  men  of  Europe,  monarks  of  the  West, 
Ringd  with  the  walls  of  old  Oceanus, 
Whose  loftie  surge  is  l  like  the  battelments 
That  compast  high  built  Babell  in  with  towers, — 
Welcome,  my  lords,  welcome,  brave  westerne  kings,  5 

To  Englands  shore,  whose  promontorie  cleeves 
Shewes  Albion  is  another  little  world  : 
Welcome  says  English  Henrie  to  you  all ; 
Chiefly  unto  the  lovely  Eleanour, 

Who  darde  for  Edwards  sake  cut  through  the  seas,  10 

And  venture  as  Agenors  damsell  through  the  deepe,2 
To  get  the  love  of  Henries  wanton  sonne. 

Castile.    Englands  rich  monarch,  brave  Plantagenet. 
The  Pyren  Mounts  swelling  above  the  clouds, 

That  ward  the  welthie  Castile  in  with  walles,  15 

Could  not  detaine  the  beautious  Eleanour; 
But,  hearing  of  the  fame  of  Edwards  youth, 
She  darde  to  brooke  Neptunus  haughtie  pride, 
And  bide  the  brunt  of  froward  Eolus  : 
Then  may  faire  England  welcome  her  the  more.  20 

Elinor.    After  that  English  Henrie  by  his  lords 
Had  sent  Prince  Edwards  lovely  counterfeit, 
A  present  to  the  Castile  Elinor, 
The  comly  pourtrait  of  so  brave  a  man, 

The  vertuous  fame  discoursed  of  his  deeds,  25 

Edwards  couragious  resolution, 
Done  at  the  Holy  Land  fore  Damas3  walles, 
Led  both  mine  eye  and  thoughts  in  equal!  links, 
To  like  so  of  the  English  monarchs  sonne, 
That  I  attempted  perrils  for  his  sake.  30 

1  So  Dy.,  G.,  W.      But  ()tos.  and  Do.  surges.  2  Appendix  K. 

•'  Hi-  nevrr  fought  before  Damascus.      Ward.      For  'done,'  Dy.  queries  'shown.' 


450  The  honourable  hist  or  ie  of  [sc. 

Emperour.    Where  is  the  prince,  my  lord  ? 

Henrie.     He  posted  down,  not  long  since,  from  the  court, 
To  Suffolke  side,  to  merrie  Frcmingham,1 
To  sport  himselfe  amongst  my  fallow  deere ; 

From  thence,  by  packets  sent  to  Hampton1  house,  35 

We  heare  the  prince  is  ridden  with  his  lords 
To  Oxford,  in  the  academic  there 
To  heare  dispute  amongst  the  learned  men. 
But  we  will  send  foorth  letters  for  my  sonne, 
To  will  him  come  from  Oxford  to  the  court.  40 

Empe.    Nay,  rather,  Henrie,  let  us,  as  we  be, 
Ride  for  to  visite  Oxford  with  our  traine. 
Faine  would  I  see  your  universities, 
And  what  learned  men  your  academic  yields. 

From  HaspUrg  2  have  I  brought  a  learned  clarke  .,       45 

To  hold  dispute  with  English  orators  : 
This  doctor,  surnamde  Jaques  Vandermast, 
A  Germaine  borne,  past  into  Padua, 
To  Florence  and  to  fair  Bolonia, 

To  Paris,  Rheims,  and  stately  Orleans,  50 

And,  talking  there  with  men  of  art,  put  downe 
The  chiefest  of  them  all  in  aphorismes,3 
In  magicke,  and  the  mathematicke  rules : 
Now  let  us,  Henrie,  trie  him  in  your  schooles. 

Henrie.    He  shal,  my  lord  ;   this  motion  likes  me  wel.  55 

Weele  progresse  straight  to  Oxford  with  our  trains, 
And  see  what  men  our  academic  bringes.  — 
And,  woonder  Vandermast,  welcome  to  me : 
In  Oxford  shalt  thou  find  a  jollie  frier, 

Cald  Frier  'Bacon,  Englands  only  flowerj\  60 

Set  him  but  non-plus  in  his  magicke  spels, 
And  make  him  yeeld  in  mathematicke  rules,   " 
And  for  thy  glorie  I  will  bind  thy  browes, 

1  Not  crown  property  in  Henry  Ill's  reign  ;    nor  was  Hampton  crown  property,  till  VVolsey, 
who  had  built  the  house,  exchanged  it  with  Henry  VIII  tor  Richmond.       Ward. 

2  Hapsburg.       In  lines  •;-,  44,  etc.,  pronounce  'academic.' 

8  Statement  of  scientific  principles.      Cf".  '  Aphorisms  '  of  Hippocrates. 


v]  Frier  Bacon 

Not  with  a  poets  garland  l  made  of  bales, 

But  with  a  coronet  of  choicest  gold.  65 

Whilst  then  we  set2  to  Oxford  with  our  troupes, 

Lets  in  and  banquet  in  our  English  court.  Exit. 

[Scene  Fifth.     A  Street  in  Oxford^ 

Enter  RAPHE  SIMNELL  in  EDWARDES  apparell i  EDWARD,  WARREN,  ERMSBY, 

disguised. 

Raphe.  Where  be  these  vacabond  knaves,  that  they  attend  no 
better  on  their  master  ? 

Edward.    If  it  please  your  honour,  we  are  all  ready  at  an  inch.3 

Raphe.  Sirrha  Ned,  He  have  no  more  post  horse  to  ride  on :  He 
have  another  fetch.4  5 

Ermsbie.    I  pray  you,  how  is  that,  my  lord  ? 

Raphe.  Marrie,  sir,  He  send  to  the  He  of  Eely  for  foure  or  five 
dozen  of  geese,  and  He  have  them  tide  six  and  six  together  with 
whipcord  :  now  upon  their  backes  will  I  have  a  faire  field  bed  with 
a  canapie ;  and  so,  when  it  is  my  pleasure,  lie  flee  into  what  place  I 
please.  This  will  be  easie.  1 1 

IVarren.  Your  honour  hath  said  well :  but  shall  we  to  Brasennose 
Colledge  before  we  pull  off  our  bootes  ? 

Ermsbie.    Warren,  well  motion'd  -,   wee  will  to  the  frier 
Before  we  revell  it  within  the  towne.  —  15 

Raphe,  see  that  you  keepe  your  countenance  like  a  prince. 

Raphe.    Wherefore  have  I  such  a  companie  of  cutting5  knaves 
to  wait  upon  me,  but  to   keep  and   defend  my  countenance  against 
all  mine  enemies  ?   have  you  not  good  swords  and  bucklers  ? 
Enter  BACON  and  MILES. 

Ermsbie.    Stay,  who  comes  heere  ?  20 

1  As  in  the  laureation  which  accompanied  the  conferring  of  the  academic  degree  in  Grammar. 

2  So  Dy.  and  W.      Cf.  H.  Y.,  Frol.  to  Act  II.  34.      ^  i ,  fit :  which  cannot  be  the  i>.  tr., 
'  to  array  '  or  '  marshal  '  (see  Alone  Arthur,  1755,  etc.,  as  in  N.  E.  D.  ).      G.  suggests  '  fet,' 
which  avails  nothing.      Q  3  has  '  sit,'  which  was  probably  intended  for  '  set.' 

8  For  the  emergency.      Cf.  Fletcher,  Loyal  Subject,  IV.  ii. 

4  Dodge.      So  Red  ford' s  ffit.  and  Sc.,  "The  fechys  of  Tediousnes  "  ;   cf.  Lear  II.  iv. 

5  Swaggering.      Like  Cowley's  Cutter. 


452  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

Warren.    Some  scholler ;  and  weele  aske  him  where  Frier  Bacon  is. 

Bacon.  Why,  thou  arrant  dunce,  shal  I  never  make  thee  good 
scholler  ?  doth  not  all  the  towne  crie  out  and  say,  Frier  Bacons 
subsiser  is  the  greatest  blockhead  in  all  Oxford  ?  why,  thou  canst 
not  speake  one  word  of  true  Latine.  25 

Miles.  No,  sir  ?  Yes.1  What  is  this  els  ?  Ego  sum  tuns  homo,  1 1 
am  your  man  ' ;  I  warrant  you,  sir,  as  good  Tullies  phrase  as  any  is 
in  Oxford. 

Bacon.    Come  on,  sirha  ;   what  part  of  speech  is  Ego  ? 

Miles.    Ego,  that  is  l  I  '  ;   marrie,  nomen  substantive.  30 

Bacon.    How  proove  you  that  ? 

Miles.  Why,  sir,  let  him  proove  himselfe  and  a  will ;  '  I '  can 
be  hard,  felt,  and  understood. 

Bacon.    O  grosse  dunce  ! 

Here  beate  him. 

Edw.    Come,  let  us  breake  off  this  dispute  between  these  two. — 
Sirha,  where  is  Brazennose  Colledge  ?  36 

Miles.    Not  far  from  Copper-smithes  Hall. 

Edward.    What,  doest  thou  mocke  me  ? 

Miles.    Not  I,  sir  :   but  what  would  you  at  Brazennose  ? 

Ermsbie.    Marrie,  we  would  speak  with  Frier  Bacon.  40 

Miles.    Whose  men  be  you  ? 

Ermsbie.    Marrie,  scholler,  heres  our  maister. 

Raphe.  Sirha,  I  am  the  maister  of  these  good  fellowes  ;  mayst 
thou  not  know  me  to  be  a  lord  by  my  reparrell  ?  44 

Miles.  Then  heeres  good  game  for  the  hawke  ;  for  heers  the 
maister  foole  and  a  covie  of  cocks  combs  :  one  wise  man,  I  thinke, 
would  spring  you  all. 

Edward.    Gogs  wounds  !      Warren,  kill  him. 

Warren.  Why,  Ned,  I  think  the  devill  be  in  my  sheath  ;  I  can- 
not get  out  my  dagger.  50 

Ermsbie.    Nor  I  mine  :    swones,  Ned,  I  think  I  am  bewitcht. 

Miles.  A  companie  of  scabbes  !  the  proudest  of  y°11  all  drawe 
your  weapon  if  he  can.— 

See  how  boldly  I  speake,  now  my  maister  is  by.  \_Aside J\ 

1  So  <,)tos.  =  "  Can't  I  ?      Yes,  I  can."      Dy.  and  W.,  unnecessarily  :    '  Yet,  what,'  etc. 


v]  Frier  Bacon  453 

Edward.    I  strive  in  vaine  ;  but  if  my  sword  be  shut  55 

And  conjur'd  fast  by  magicke  in  my  sheath, 
Villaine,  heere  is  my  fist. 

Strikes  him  a  box  on  the  eare. 

Miles.    Oh,  I  beseech  you  conjure  his  hands  too,  that  he  may  not 
lift  his  armes  to  his  head,  for  he  is  light  fingered  ! 

Raphe.    Ned,  strike  him  ;   He  warrant  thee  by  mine  honour.      60 

Bacon.    What  meanes  the  English  prince  to  wrong  my  man  ? 

Edw'ard.    To  whom  speakest  thou  ? 

Bacon.    To  thce. 

Edward.    Who  art  thou  ?  1 

Bacon.    Could  you  not  judge  when  all  your  swords  grew  fast,   65 
That  Frier  Bacon  was  not  farre  from  hence  ? 
Edward,  King  Henries  sonne  and  Prince  of  Wales, 
Thy  foole  disguisd2  cannot  conceale  thy  self: 
I  know  both  Ermsbie  and  the  Sussex  earle, 

Els  Frier  Bacon  had  but  little  skill.  70 

Tljou  comest  in  post  from  merrie  Fresingfield, 
'-"Fast  fancied  to  the  keepers  bonny  lasse, 
To  crave  some  succour  of  the  jolly  frier  : 
And  Lacie,  Ear[l]e  of  Lincolne,  hast  thou  left 

To  treat  fair  Margret  to  allow  thy  loves;  75 

But  friends  are  men,  and  love  can  baffle  lords  ; 
The  earl  both  woes  and  courtes  her  for  himselfe. 

Jfarren.    Ned,  this  is  strange  ;  the  frier  knoweth  al. 

Ermsbie.    Appollo  could  not  utter  more  than  this. 

Edward.    I  stand  amazed  to  heare  this  jolly  frier  80 

Tell  even  the  verie  secrets  of  my  thoughts.— 
But,  learned  Bacon,  since  thou  knowest  the  cause 
Why  I  did  post  so  fast  from  Fresingfield, 
Helpe,  Frier,  at  a  pinch,  that  I  may  have 

The  love  of  lovely  Margret  to  my  selfe,  85 

And,  as  I  am  true  Prince  of  Wales,  He  give 

1  On  Edw.'s  abrupt  utterances,  see  Appendix  C.      On  these  lines  C,  I  d. 

2  W.  :   'thy  fool  disguise.'      But   Bacon  means  "That  tool   parading  in  your  clothes  does 
not  deceive  me  as  to  your  identity." 


454  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Living  and  lands  to  strength  thy  colledge  state. 

Warren.    Good  Frier,  helpe  the  prince  in  this. 

Rapbe.  Why,  servant  Ned,  will  not  the  frier  doe  it  ?  Were  not 
my  sword  glued  to  my  scabberd  by  conjuration,  I  would  cut  off  his 
head,  and  make  him  do  it  by  force.  91 

Afi/es.  In  faith,  my  lord,  your  manhood  and  your  sword  is  all 
alike  ;  they  are  so  fast  conjured  that  we  shall  never  see  them. 

Ermsbie.   What,  doctor,  in  a  dumpe  !   tush,  helpe  the  prince, 
And  thou  shalt  see  how  liberall  he  will  proove.  95 

Bacon.    Crave  not  such  actions  greater  dumps  than  these  ? 
I  will,  my  lord,  straine  out  my  magicke  spels  ; 
For  this  day  comes  the  earle  to  Fresingfield, 
And  fore  that  night  shuts  in  the  day  with  darke, 
Theile  be  betrothed  ech  to  other  fast.  100 

But  come  with  me  ;   weele  to  my  studie  straight, 
And  in  a  glasse  prospective  I  will  shew 
Whats  done  this  day  in  merry  Fresingfield. 

Edward.    Gramercies,  Bacon  ;   I  will  quite  thy  paine. 

Bacon.    But  send  your  traine,  my  lord,  into  the  towne  :  105 

My  scholler  shall  go  bring  them  to  their  inne  : 
Meane  while  weele  see  the  knaverie  of  the  earle. 

Edward.    Warren,  leave  me:  —  and,  Ermsbie,  take  the  foole  ; 
Let  him  be  maister,  and  go  revell  it, 
Till  I  and  Frier  Bacon  talke  a  while.  1 10 

Warren.    We  will,  my  lord. 

Raphe.    Faith,  Ned,  and  He  lord  it  out  till  thou  comest : 
He  be  Prince  of  Wales  over  all  the  blacke  pots  *  in  Oxford.     Exeunt. 

[Scene  Sixth.     Frier  Bacons  cell  in  Brazennose.~\ 

BACON,  and  EDWARD,  goes  into  the  study. - 

Bacon.    Now,  frolick  Fdward,  welcome  to  my  cell ; 
Heere  tempers  Frier  Bacon  many  toies, 

1  Cf.  x.   3  :    (black)  jacks,  leathern  wine-jugs. 

-  After  Bacon  and  Kdw.  had  walked  a  few  paces  about  (or  perhaps  toward  the  back  of)  the 
stage,  the  audience  were  to  suppose  that  the  scene  was  changed  to  the  interior  of  Bacon's  cell.  Dyce. 


vi]  Frier  Bacon  455 

And  holds  this  place  his  consistoric  court, 

Wherein  the  divels  pleads  l  homage  to  his  words. 

Within  this  glasse  prospective  thou  shalt  see  5 

This  day  whats  done  in  merry  Fresingfield 

Twixt  lovely  Peggie  and  the  Lincolne  earle. 

Edward.    Frier,  thou  gladst  me  :   now  shall  Edward  trie 
How  Lacie  meaneth  to  his  soveraigne  lord. 
Bacon.    Stand  there  and  looke  directly  in  the  glasse.  IO 

Enter  MARGARET  and  FRIER  BUNGAY. 2  <• 


What  sees  my  lord  ? 

Edward.     I  see  the  keepers  lovely  lasse  appeare, 
As  bright-sunne3  as  the  parramour  of  Mars, 
Onely  attended  by  a  jolly  frier. 

Bacon.    Sit  still,  and  keepe  the  cristall  in  your  eye.  15 

Margret.    Hut  tell  me,  Frier  Bungay,  is  it  true 
That  this  fair4  courtious  countrie  swaine, 
Who  saies  his  father  is  a  farmer  nie, 
Can  be  Lord  Lacie,  Earle  of  Lincolnshire  ? 

Bun.    Peggie,  tis  true,  tis  Lacie  for  my  life,  20 

Or  else  mine  art  and  cunning  both  doth  faile, 
Left  by  Prince  Edward  to  procure  his  loves  ; 
For  he  in  greene,  that  holpe  you  runne  your  cheese, 
Is  sonne  to  Henry,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Margret.    He  what  he  will,  his  lure  is  but  for  lust :  25 

But  did  Lord  Lacie  like  poor  Marg  [a]  ret, 
Or  would  he  daine  to  wed  a  countrie  lasse,5 
Frier,  I  would  his  humble  handmayd  be, 
And  for  great  wealth  quite  him  with  courtesie. 

Bungay.    Why,  Margret,  doest  thou  love  him  ?  30 

1  Common  construction;   hut  £)  3,  '  pleade. '      Metre,  Appendix  B,  2. 

-  Perhaps  the  curtain  which  concealed  the  upper  stage  was  withdrawn,  discovering  M.  and 
B.,  and,  when  the  representation  in  the  glass  was  supposed  to  be  over,  the  curtain  was  drawn 
hack  again.  Dyce. 

3  So  ytos.       May  he  unintentional  metathesis  for  '  sunne-hright.'       But  eds.  all  adopt  Do. 's 
'  brightsome,'  which  has  additional  authority  of  sllpbonsus  IV.  p.  240  a  (Dyce  ed.  ). 

4  I)y.   'fair  tL'itt\  '  for  metre,  arguing  from  iii.  61  ;    vi.    53-35.      But   the   original    reading 
is  sufficiently  metrical.      See  Appendix  H,   I  ;    and  C,  i   a. 

6  Q  3  and  G.,  '  lasse  ?  '      Wrong,  for  the  clauses  are  conditional. 


456  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Margret.    His  personage,  like  the  pride  of  vaunting  Troy, 
Might  well  avouch  to  shadow1  Hellen's  scape:2 
His  wit  is  quicke  and  readie  in  conceit, 
As  Greece  affoorded  in  her  chiefest  prime  : 

Courteous,  ah  Frier,  full  of  pleasing  smiles  !  35 

Trust  me,  I  love  too  much  to  tell  thee  more; 
Suffice  to  me  he  is  Englands  parramour.3 

Bun.    Hath  not  ech  eye  that  viewd  thy  pleasing  face 
Surnamed  thee  Faire  Maid  of  Fresingfield  ? 

Margret.    Yes,  Bungav  ;   and  would  God  the  lovely  earle  40 

Had  that  in  esse  that  so  many  sought. 

Bungay.    Feare  not,  the  frier  will  not  be  behind 
To  shew  his  cunning  to  entangle  love. 

Edward,    I  thinke  the  frier  courts  the  bonny  wench  :  4 
Bacon,  me  thinkes  he  is  a  lustie  churle.  45 

Bacon.    Now  looke,  my  lord. 

Enter  LACIE. 

Edward.    Gogs  wounds,  Bacon,  heere  comes  Lacie  !  5 
Bacon.    Sit  still,  my  lord,  and  marke  the  commedie. 
Bungay.    Heeres  Lacie,  Margret  ;   step  aside  awhile. 


[  7  'bey  withdraw  .  ] 
Lacie  [W«j]  .    Daphne,  the  damsell  that  caught  Phasbus  fast,      50 


And  lockt  him  in  the  brightnesse  of  her  lookes, 

Was  not  so  beautious  in  Appollos  eyes 

As  is  faire  Margret  to  the  Lincolne  earle  ;  — 

Recant  thee,  Lacie  —  thou  art  put  in  trust: 

Edward,  thy  soveraignes  sonne,  hath  chosen  thee,  55 

A  secret  friend,  to  court  her  for  himself, 

1  Cover  with  an  excuse.       Ward. 

2  Qtos.   'cape,'  which  might  he  justified  as  =  capture.      (See  A'.  E.  D.  for  the  verb  ;    and 
cf.  Greene's  fondness   for  coining  from  the  Latin,  e.g.  norent  in   fas  ,  IV.)       Do.  suggests  and 
eds.  adopt  'rape.'      But  my  reading  is  confirmed  by  Or/.   /•'«>•.  ,  Sc.  i.    176,  concerning  Helen, 
who,  "  With  a  swaine  made  scape  away  to  Troy,"  =  euape.      In  Q  I  of  our  text  the  '  s  '  was 
absorbed  by  the  preceding  possessive. 

3  W.  conjectures  '  paragon  '  ;   but  Greene  had  a  weakness  for  '  paramour.' 

4  Note  that  the  prince  does  not  hear  what  the  audience  hears. 

5  For  metre  of  II.  47,  108,  127,   146,  176,  Af>f>.   C,  i  a. 


vi]  Frier  Bacon  457 

And  darest  them  wrong  thy  prince  with  trecherie  ?  — 
Lacie,  love  makes  no  exception  l  of  a  friend, 
Nor  deemes  it  of  a  prince  but  as  a  man. 

Honour  bids  thee  controll2  him  in  his  lust;  60 

His  wooing  is  not  for  to  wed  the  girle, 
But  to  intrap  her  and  beguile  the  lasse. 
Lacie,  thou  lovest,  then  brooke  not  such  abuse, 
But  wed  her,  and  abide  thy  prince's  frowne  ; 3 

For  better4  die  than  see  her  live  disgracde.  65 

Margret.    Come,  Frier,  I  will  shake  him  from  his  dumpes. — 

.    ,  .     r  [Advancing.] 

How  cheere  you,  sir  r   a  penie  tor  your  thought  ! 

Your  early  up,  prav  God  it  be  the  neere:5 
What,  come  from  Beckles  in  a  morne  so  soone  ? 

Lacie.    Thus  watchfull  are  such  men  as  live  in  love,  70 

Whose  eyes  brooke  broken  slumbers  for  their  sleepe. 

1  tell  thee,  Peggie,  since  last  Harlston  faire 
My  minde  hath  felt  a  heape  of  passions. 

Alar.    A  trustie  man,  that  court  it  for  your  friend  : 
Woo  you  still  for  the  courtier  all  in  greene?  -  75 

[y/jwfe.l      I  marvell  that  he  sues  not  for  himselfe. 

Lacie.    Peggie,  I  pleaded  first  to  get  your  grace  for  him  ; 
But  when  mine  eies  survaid  your  beautious  lookes, 
Love,  like  a  wagge,  straight  dived  into  my  heart, 
And  there  did  shrine  the  Idea6  of  your  selfe.  80 

Pittie  me,  though  I  be  a  farmers  sonne, 
And  measure  not  my  riches,  but  my  love. 

Margret.    You  are  verie  hastie  ;   for  to  garden  well, 
Seeds  must  have  time  to  sprout  before  they  spring  : 
Love  ought  to  crcepe  as  doth  the  dials  shade,  85 

For  timely"  ripe  is  rotten  too  too8  soone. 

Bungay  [advancing]  .    Dens  hie  ;   roome  for  a  merrie  frier  ! 
What,  youth  of  Beckles,  with  the  keepers  lasse  ? 
Tis  well  ;  but  tell  me,  heere  you  any  newes  ? 

'  y  3-     Q  '  ^as  afief>t"j"  »   so  also  Orpbarlon  (CJros.  xn.  50).      See  Appendix  A,  \  and  3. 

2  As  in  i.    14.2.  8  Cf.  Kthcnwald's  soliloquy  in  Kn.  Kn.  Kn.  (H.  Dods.  VI.  543-544). 
*  $2  3  om|ts-  6  nearer,  luckier.  '•  image.  "  So  x.    126  ^  prematurely 
8  Altogether  too.    So  Heywood,  'Jobann.,  I.  183,  and  frequently.    Still  heard  in  New  England. 


458  The  honourable  hist  or  ie  of  [sc. 

Margret)-    No,  Frier  :   what  newes  ?  90 

Bungay.    Heere  you  not  how  the  pursevants  do  post 
With  proclamations  through  ech  country  towne  ? 

Lade.    For  what,  gentle  frier  ?   tell  the  newes. 

Bun.    Dwelst  thou  in  Beckles,  &  heerst  not  of  these  news  ? 
Lacie,  the  Earle  of  Lincolne,  is  late  fled  95 

From  Windsor  court,  disguised  like  a  swaine, 
And  lurkes  about  the  countrie  heere  unknowne. 
Henrie  suspects  him  of  some  trecherie, 
And  therefore  doth  proclaime  in  every  way, 

That  who  can  take  the  Lincolne  earle  shall  have,  100 

Paid  in  the  Exchequer,  twcntie  thousand  crownes. 

Lacie.    The  Earle  of  Lincoln  !      Frier,  thou  art  mad  : 
It  was  some  other;  thou  mistakes!  the  man. 
The  earle  of  Lincolne  !   why,  it  cannot  be. 

Margret.    Yes,  verie  well,  my  lord,  for  you  are  he  :  105 

The  keepers  daughter  tooke  you  prisoner. 
Lord  Lacie,  yeeld,  He  be  your  gailor  once. 

Edward.    How  familiar  they  be,  Bacon  ! 

Bacon.    Sit  still,  and  marke  the  sequell  of  their  loves. 

Lacie.    Then  am  I  double  prisoner  to  thy  selfe  :  110 

Peggie,  I  yeeld.      But  are  these  newes  in  jest  ?2 

Margret.    In  jest  with  you,  but  earnest  unto  me  ; 
For  why  these  wrongs  do  wring  me  at  the  heart. 
Ah,  how  these  carles  and  noble  men  of  birth 
Flatter  and  faine  to  forge  poore  womens  ill  !  115 

Lacie.    Belceve  me,  lasse,  I  am  the  Lincolne  earle  : 
I  not  denie  but,  tyred  thus  in  rags, 
I  lived  disguisd  to  winne  faire  Peggies  love. 

Margret.    What  love  is  there  where  wedding  ends  not  love? 

Lacie.    I  meant,3  faire  girle,  to  make  thee  Lacies  wife.  120 

Margret.    I  litle  thinke  that  carles  wil  stoop  so  low. 

Lacie.    Say  shall  I  make  thee  countesse  ere  I  sleep  ? 

Margret.     Handmaid  unto  the  carle,  so  please  him  selfe  : 
A  wife  in  name,  but  servant  in  obedience. 

1  l)y.  and  W.  assign  to  Lacie  ;   but  Qtos.  as  above.      Momentarily  even  Margaret  is  deceived 
(or  she  pretends  to  be  deceived  )  by  Bungay's  "  cunning."  2  Q  i  :   injest. 

3  Dy.,  W.,    '  mean  '  ;    needlessly. 


vi]  Frier  Bacon  459 

Lade.    The  Lincolne  countesse,  for  it  shalbe  so:  125 

He  plight  the  bands,  and  scale  it  with  a  kisse. 

Edward.    Gogs  wounds,  Bacon,  they  kisse  !      He  stab  them. 

Bacon.    Oh,  hold  your  handes,  my  lord,  it  is  the  glasse  ! 

Edward.    Coller  to  see  the  traitors  gree  so  well 
Made  me  1  thinke  the  shadowes  substances.  i  30 

Bacon.    Twere  a  long  poinard,  my  lord,  to  reach  betweene 
Oxford  and  Fresingfield  ;  but  sit  still  and  see  more.2 

Bungay.    Well,  Lord  of  Lincolne,  if  your  loves  be  knit, 
And  that  your  tongues  and  thoughts  do  both  agree, 
To  avoid  insuing  jarres,  He  hamper  up  the  match  :  135 

He  take  my  portace  3  forth  and  wed  you  heere. 
Then  go  to  bed  and  scale  up  your  desires. 

Lade.    Frier,  content.  —  Peggie,  how  like  you  this? 

Margret.    What  likes  my  lord  is  pleasing  unto  me. 

Bungay.    Then  hand-fast  hand,  and  I  wil  to  my  booke.  140 

Bacon.    What  sees  my  lord  now  ? 

Edivard.    Bacon,  I  see  the  lovers  hand  in  hand, 
The  frier  readie  with  his  portace  there 
To  wed  them  both  :   then  am  I  quite  undone. 

Bacon,  helpe  now,  if  e'er  thy  magicke  servde  !  —  145 

Helpe,  Bacon  •,   stop  the  marriage  now, 
If  divels  or  nigromancie  may  suffice, 
And  I  will  give  thee  fortie  thousand  crownes. 

Bacon.    Feare  not,  my  lord,  He  stop  the  jolly  frier 
For4  mumbling  up5  his  orisons  this  day.  150 

Lade.    Why  speakst  not,  Bungay  ?      Frier,  to  thy  booke. 

1  Lines  130,  161,  Appendix  C,  I  a. 

-Lines   131—132:    Dy.,    "Is  this  a  prose  speech  or  corrupted  verse  ?"       Neither;    see 
Appendix  D,  3  a. 

3  A  breviary  for  out-of-door  use.      Cf.  Neiu  Cust.,  1.  ii.  (H.  Dods.  III.)  and  Confl.   Consc. 
III.  iv.   (Caconos). 

4  So  £)tos.,  meaning  '  in  respect  of  ;  and  W.  in  his  first  ed.      Wagner  (Anglia,  Vol.  II.) 
would  change  to  'from,'  saying  "  for  mumbling  wiirdi:  heissen  'ich  will  ihn  /um  stillstand  bringen 
dafur  dass  er  ableiert.'  "      Let  us  rather  trust  Greene  for  Knglish.      Cf.  his  Ef>.  DcJ.  to  Orpba- 
rion,  "  Klse  shall   you   discourage  a    gardener    for   grafting  "  ;   also   his   Never    Too   Late  (ed. 
I59°)>  "A   hat   .    .    .   shelter  for  the  sun,"  etc.      The  word   means  'in   respect  of,'  'with 
regard  to,'  and  then  '  against '  and  '  from,'  as  here.      (See,  also,  N.  E.  D.  :   For  23.  J. ) 

5  In  sense  of  'finishing.'      Cf.    iii.    22;    vi.    159;    xii.    21;   Alpb.,    "soothe  up"..(ed. 
Uyce,  p.  241). 


460  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

BUNCAY  is  mute,  crying,  'Hud,  hud.' 

Margret.    How  lookest  thou,  Frier,  as  a  man  distraught  ? 
Reft  of  thy  sences,  Bungay  ?   shew  by  signes, 
If  thou  be  dum,  what  passions  !  holdeth  thee. 

Lade.    Hees  dumbe  indeed:    Bacon  hath  with  his  divels  155 

Enchanted  him,  or  else  some  strange  disease 
Or  appoplexie  hath  possest  his  lungs  : 
But,  Peggie,  what  he  cannot  with  his  booke, 
Weel  twixt  us  both  unite  it  up  in  heart. 

Margret.    Els  let  me  die,  my  lord,  a  miscreant.  160 

Ed-ward.    Why  stands  Frier  Bungay2  so  amazd  ? 

Bacon.    I    have    strook    him   dum,   my    lord  ;    &,   if    your    honor 

please,3 

He  fetch  this  Bungay  straightway  from  Fresingfield,3 
And  he  shall  dine  with  us  in  Oxford  here. 

Edward.    Bacon,  doe  that,  and  thou  contentest  me.  165 

Lade.    Of  courtesie,  Margret,  let  us  lead  the  frier 
Unto  thy  fathers  lodge,  to  comfort  him 
With  brothes,  to  bring  him  from  this  haplesse  trance. 

Margret.    Or  els,  my  lord,  we  were  passing  unkinde 
To  leave  the  frier  so  in  his  distresse.  170 

Enter  a  Devill  and  carrie  BUNGAY  on  bis  backe. 

Margret.    O,  helpe,  my  lord  !   a  devill,  a  devill,  my  lord  ! 
Looke  how  he  carries  Bungay  on  his  backe  ! 
Let's  hence,  for  Bacons  spirits  be  abroad.  Exeunt. 

Ediuard.    Bacon,  I  laugh  to  see  the  jolly  frier 

Mounted  upon  the  divell,  and  how  the  earle  175 

Flees  with  his  bonny  lasse  for  feare. 
Assoone  as  Bungay  is  at  Brazennose, 
And  I  have  chatted  with  the  merry  frier, 
I  will  in  post  hie  me  to  Fresingfield, 
And  quite  these  wrongs  on  Lacie  ere  it  be  long.  180 

1  £)  i .      But  Do.,  Dy. ,  modernizing  Elizabethan  grammar,  read  'passion.* 

2  £)   I   (  B.   M.  )  Union,  corrected  in  a  handwritten  '  Bungay.' 

3  Line  162,  Appendix  D,  3  «;    163,  D  2. 


vn]  Frier  Bacon  461 

Bacon.    So  be  it,  my  lord  :   but  let  us  to  our  dinner; 
For  ere  we  have  taken  our  repast  awhile, 
We  shall  have  Bungay  brought  to  Brazennosc.  Exeunt. 


[Scene  Seventh.      The  Regenthouse  at  Oxford.~\ 

Enter  three  doctors,  BURDEN,  MASON,  CLEMENT. 

Mason.    Now  that  we  are  gathered  in  the  Regenthouse,1 
It  fits  us  talke  about  the  kings  repaire; 
For  he,  troopt2  with  all  the  wcsterne  kings, 
That  lie  alongst  the  Dansick  seas  by  east, 

North  by  the  clime  of  frostie  Germanic,  5 

The  Almain  monarke  and  the  Saxon3  duke, 
Castile  and  lovely  Ellinor  with  him, 
Have  in  their  jests  resolved  for  Oxford  towne. 

Burden.    We  must  lay  plots  of  stately  tragedies, 
Strange  comick  showes,  such  as  proud  Rossius4  IO 

Vaunted  before  the  Romane  emperours, 
To  welcome  all  the  westerne  potentates.5 

Clement.    But  more;   the  king  by  letters  hath  foretold 
That  Fredericke,  the  Almaine  emperour, 

Hath  brought  with  him  a  Germane  of  esteeme,  15 

Whose  surname  is  Don  Jaquesse  Vandermast, 
Skilfull  in  magicke  and  those  secret  arts. 

Mason.    Then  must  we  all  make  sute  unto  the  frier, 
To  Frier  Bacon,  that  he  vouch  this  taske, 

And  undertake  to  countervaile  in  skill  20 

The  German  ;  els  theres  none  in  Oxford  can 
Match  and  dispute  with  learned  Vandermast. 

Burden.    Bacon,  if  he  will  hold  the  German  play, 
Will0  teach  him  what  an  English  frier  can  doe; 
The  divcll,  I  thinke,  dare  not  dispute  with  him.  25 

1  Greene  has  in  mind  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin. 

2  Appendix  C,   I  b.  8  Do.'s   suggestion  for  ytos. '  Scocon. 
4  Died  B.C.   62.       Cf.  Never  tuo  Late,   I't.    I.    (1^90). 

6  So  Dyce  ;    but  ^tos.  and  Do.  give  the  line  to  Clement.  6  y  i,    Wctlc. 


462  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

Clement.    Indeed,  mas  doctor,  he  [dis1]  pleasured  you, 
In  that  he  brought  your  hostesse  with  her  spit, 
From  Henly,  posting  unto  Brazennose. 

Burden.    A  vengeance  on  the  frier  for  his  paines  ! 
But  leaving  that,  lets  hie2  to  Bacon  straight,  30 

To  see  if  he  will  take  this  taske  in  hand. 

Clement.  Stay,  what  rumor  is  this  ?  The  towne  is  up  in  a 
mutinie  :  what  hurly  burlie  is  this  ? 

Enter  a  Constable,  ivitb  RAPHE,  WARREN,  ERMSBIE,  and  MILES. 

Constable.  Nay,  maisters,  if  you  were  nere  so  good,  you  shall 
before  the  doctors  to  aunswer  your  misdemeanour.  35 

Burden.    Whats  the  matter,  fellow  ? 

Constable.  Marrie,  sir,  heres  a  companie  of  rufflers,3  that,  drink- 
ing; in  the  taverne,  have  made  a  great  braule,  and  almost  kilde  the 

D  '  O  ' 

vintner. 

OK«    4  ov  \  c      *.''•,;£,€. 

Miles.     Salve,  Doctor  Burden!4      This  lubberly  lurden,5  40 

Ill-shapte  and  ill  faced,  disdaind  and  disgraced, 
What  he  tels  unto  vobis  mentitur  de  nobis. 

Burden.    Who  is  the  maister  and  cheefe  of  this  crew  ? 

Miles.     Ecce  asinum  rnundi  fugura  G  rotundi, 

Neat,  sheat "  and  fine,  as  briske  as  a  cup  of  wine.          45 

Burden.    What  are  you  ? 

Raphe.    I  am,  father  doctor,  as  a  man  would  say,  the  belwether 
of  this  company  :   these  are  my  lords,  and  I  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
Clement.    Are  you  Edward,  the  kings  sonne  ?  49 

Raphe.    Sirra   Miles,  bring  hither  the  tapster  that  drue  the  wine, 

1  Inserted  by  Do.,  Dy. ,  W.      G.  prefers  '  ill.'          -  Q  3  omits.      Do.  :  Met  us  to  Bacon.' 

3  bullies.      Cf.  Shaksp. ,   Tit.  And.,  I.  i.  313. 

4  Skeltonical  verse.      £)tos.  print  thus,  but  Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  in  couplets.  5  hea-vy  head. 
0  So   (,)    i.      Miles  is  responsible  for  the  Latin  ;  cf.  babitarcs  Sc.  ii.  4.  The  asinus  mundi 

is,  of  course,  Raphe. 

"  W.  omits  'sheat.'  G.  reads,  'Neat,  sheat,  and  [as]  fine,  as  a  briske  cup  of  wine.' 
ytos.  have  comma  after  'neat,'  making  'sheat'  an  adjective,  for  which  Cent.  Diet,  suggests 
the  meaning  'trim.'  Poppey,  in  Lodge's  ff^otinili  of  Ci-vil  War  (H.  Dods.  VII.  191  ), 
says,  "  Fair,  fresh  and  fine,  As  a  merry  cup  of  wine." 


vn]  Frier  Bacon  463 

and,  I  warrant,  when  they  see  how  soundly  I  have  broke  his  head, 
theile  say  twas  done  by  no  lesse  man  than  a  prince. 

Mason.    I  cannot  believe  that  this  is  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Warren,    And  why  so,  sir? 

Mason.    For  they  say  the  prince   is  a  brave  <Sc  a  wise  gentleman. 

IVar.    Why,  and  thinkest  thou,  doctor,  that  he  is  not  so?         56 
Darst  thou  detract  and  derogat  from  him, 
Being  so  lovely  and  so  brave  a  youth  ? 

Ermsbie.    Whose  face,  shining  with  many  a  sugred  smile, 
Bewraies  that  he  is  bred  of  princely  race.  60 

Miles.     And  yet,  maister  doctor,  to  speake  like  a  proctor, 
And  tell  unto  you  what  is  veriment  and  true  : 
To  cease  of  this  quarrell,  looke  but  on  his  apparell; 
Then  marke  but  my  talis,  he  is  great  Prince  of  Walis, 
The  cheef  of  our  gregis,  and  filius  regis  :  65 

Then  ware  what  is  done,  for  he  is  Henries  white1  son. 

Raphe.    Doctors,  whose  doting  nightcaps  2  are  not  capable  of  my 
ingenious  dignitie,  know  that   I   am  Edward  Plantagenet,  whom  if\  .\1«* 
you  displease  will3  make  a  shjjjpe  that  shall  hold  all  your  colleges,  l.~' 
and  so  carrie  away  the  niniversity  with  a  fay  re  wind  to  the  Banke- 
side    in    Southwarke.  —  How   sayst  thou,   Ned   Warraine,  shall    L 

,          .       ,  4    f  »•-  ' 

not  do  it  r        ^_  $  72    V " 

I  •  i>-. 

Warren.  Yes,  my  good  lord  ;  and,  if  it  please  your  lordship,  I  wil 
gather  up  all  your  old  pantophles,  and  with  the  corke4  make  you  a 
pinnis  of  five-hundred  tunne,  that  shall  serve  the  turne  marvellous 
well,  my  lord.  76 

Ermsbie.  And  I,  my  lord,  will  have  pioners  to  undermine  the 
towne,  that  the  very  gardens  and  orchards  be  carried  away  for  your 
summer- walkes. 

Miles.     And,  I,  with  scientia"  and  great  diligentia,  80 

Will  conjure  and  charme,  to  keepe  you  from  harme  ; 

1  dear  :  Lk.  G/.,  148  I  ;  R.  /).,  I.  i.  49  ;  and  frequently.  In  American  slang,  to-day,  '  good- 
natured.'  2  Perhaps  the  caps  of  Doctors  of  Law  and  Physic.  Ward. 

8  Dy.,  W.,  careful  of  R.'s  grammar,  read  '  /  will.' 

4  From  the  inner  sole.  Peg  in  Wil\  Beg.  (Hawkins  III.  356)  glories  in  '  cork'ii  shoes.' 
Ward.  So  also  Mall  in  2  A,  IV.  A.  iii.  167. 


464  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

That  utrum  horum  mavis,  your  very  great  navis, 

Like  Bartlets  *  ship,  from  Oxford  do  skip 

With  colleges  and  schooles,  full  loaden  with  fooles. 

£)uid  dices  ad  hoc,  worshipfull  Domine  Dawcocke  ?  2         85 

Clement.    Why,  harebraind  courtiers,  are  you  drunke  or  mad, 
To  taunt  us  with  such  scurilitie  ? 
Deeme  you  us  men  of  base  and  light  esteeme, 
To  bring  us  such  a  fop  for  Henries  son  ?  — 

Call  out  the  beadl[e]s  and  convay  them  hence  90 

Straight  to  Bocardo  :  3  let  the  roisters  lie 
Close  clapt  in  bolts,  untill  their  wits  be  tame. 

Ermsbie.    Why,  shall  we  to  prison,  my  lord  ? 

Raphe.    What  saist,  Miles,  shall   I   honour  the  prison   with   my 
presence?  95 

Miles.     No,  no  :   out  with  your  blades,  and  hamper  these  jades  ; 
Have  a  flurt  and  a  crash,  now  play  revell  dash, 
And  teach  these  sacerdos  that  the  Bocardos, 
Like  pezzants  and  elves,  are  meet  for  themselves.4 

Mason.    To  the  prison  with  them,  constable.  100 

Warren.    Well,  doctors,  seeing  I  have  sported  me 

With  laughing  at  these  mad  and  merrie  wagges, 

Know  that  Prince  Edward  is  at  Brazennose, 

And  this,  attired  like  the  Prince  of  Wales, 

Is  Raphe,  King  Henries  only  loved  foole ;  105 

I,  Earle  of  Sussex,5  and  this  Ermsbie, 

One  of  the  privie  chamber  to  the  king  ; 

Who,  while  the  prince  with  Frier  Bacon  stales, 

Have  revel'd  it  in  Oxford  as  you  see. 

Mason.    My  lord,  pardon  us,  we  knew  not  what  you  were  :     1 10 

1  So  Qtos.      The  mistake  for  Barclay  is  as  likely  to  be  Miles's  as  the  compositor's. 

2  Do.,  I)y.,  W.  change  to  dicis.      A  parody  of"  Cfmstruas  hoc,  etc.,  in  Skelton's  Ware  the 
Hauke.      Dyce.      So,  for  a  fool,  Ingeland's  Disoh.  Child  (  H.   Dods.   II.  285  )  ;   and  frequently. 
Cf.   'Woodcock'  in  jfobann,  and  Hamlet,  I.  iii.    115. 

3  Old   north  gate,  Oxford,  used  as  a  prison  ;    taken  down,   1771.      As  hard  to  get  out  of  as 
the  Bocardo  mood  of  the  syllogism.       Dyce  and  Ward. 

*  "  Are  meet  for  just  such  low-born  devils  as  they  are."  6  !<itos->  Kssex. 


vni]  Frier  Bacon  .  465 

But  courtiers  may  make  greater  skapes  than  these. 
Wilt  please  your  honour  dine  with  me  to-day  ? 

Warren.  I  will,  maister  doctor,  and  satisfie  the  vintner  for  his 
hurt ;  only  I  must  desire  you  to  imagine  him  l  all  the  forenoon  the 
Prince  of  Wales.  115 

Mason.    I  will,  sir. 

Raphe.  And  upon  that  I  will  lead  the  way  ;  onely  I  will  have 
Miles  go  before  me,  because  I  have  heard  Henrie  say  that  wisedome 
must  go  before  majestie.  Exeunt  omnes. 


[Scene  Eighth.      The  c  ountrie-side  ;  Fresingfield^\ 

Enter  PRIN'CE  EDWARD  with  bh  poiniiirJ  in  bis  band,  LACIE,  and 


Edward.    Lacie,  thou  canst  not  shroud  thy  traitrous  thoughts, 
Nor  cover,  as  did  Cassius,  all  his3  wiles; 
For  Edward  hath  an  eye  that  lookes  as  farre 
As  Lyncoeus  from  the  shores  of  Grecia. 

Did  not  I  sit  in  Oxford  by  the  frier,  5 

And  see  thee  court  the  mayd  of  Fresingfield, 
Sealing  thy  flattering  fancies  with  a  kisse  ? 
Did  not  prowd  Bungay  draw  his  portasse  foorth, 
And  joyning  hand  in  hand  had  married  you, 

If  Frier  Bacon  had  not  strook  him  dumbe,  10 

And  mounted  him  upon  a  spirits  backe 
That  we  might  chat  at  Oxford  with  the  frier? 
Traitor,  what  answcrst  ?   is  not  all  this  true  ? 

Lacy.    Truth  all,  my  lord  ;  and  thus  I  make  replie  : 
At  Harlstone  faire,  there  courting  for  your  grace,  15 

When  as  mine  eye  survaid  her  curious  shape, 
And  drewe  the  beautious  glory  of  her  looks 
To  dive  into  the  center  of  my  heart, 
Love  taught  me  that  your  honour  did  but  jest, 
That  princes  were  in  fancie  but  as  men  ;  20 

1  Raphe. 

2  Cf.  the  scene  in  Kn.  Kn.   (H.  Dods.  VI.   5-5).  «  |)v    and  W.  change  to  'thy.' 

2   H 


466  •  The  hoiiourable  historic  of  [sc. 

How  that  the  lovely  maid  of  Fresingfield 
Was  fitter  to  be  Lacies  wedded  wife 
Than  concubine  unto  the  Prince  of  Wales. 

Edivard.    Injurious  Lacie,  did  I  love  thee  more 

Than  Alexander  his  Hephestion  ?  25 

Did  I  unfould  the  passion  [s]  1  of  my  love, 
And  locke  them  in  the  closset  of  thy  thoughts  ? 
Wert  thou  to  Edward  second  to  himselfe, 
Sole  freind,  and  partner  of  his  secreat  loves  ? 

And  could  a  glaunce  of  fading  bewtie  breake  30 

Th'  inchained  fetters  of  such  privat  freinds  ? 
Base  coward,  false,  and  too  effeminate 
To  be  corivall  with  a  prince  in  thoughts  ! 
From  Oxford  have  I  posted  since  I  dinde, 
To  quite  a  traitor  fore  that  Edward  sleepe.  35 

Margret.    Twas  I,  my  lord,  not  Lacie  stept  awry  : 
For  oft  he  sued  and  courted  for  your  selfe, 
And  still  woode  for  the  courtier  all  in  greene  ; 
But  I,  whome  fancy  made  but  over  fond, 

Pleaded  myselfe  with  looks  as  if  I  lovd  ;  40 

I  fed  myne  eye  with  gazing  on  his  face, 
And  still  bewitcht  lovd  Lacie  with  my  looks  ; 
My  hart  writh  sighes,  myne  eyes  pleaded  with  tears, 
My  face  held  pittie  and  content  at  once, 

And  more  I  could  not  sipher  out  by  signes,  45 

But  that  I  lovd  Lord  Lacie  with  my  heart. 
Then,  worthy  Edward,  measure  with  thy  minde 
If  womens  favours  will  not  force  men  fall, 
If  bewty,  and  if  darts  of  persing  love, 
Are  not  of  force  to  bury  thoughts  of  friendcs.  50 

Edward.     I  tell  thee,  Peggie,  I  will  have  thy  loves  : 
Edward  or  none  shall  conquer  Marg[a]ret. 
In  frigats  bottornd  with  rich  Sethin  2  planks, 
Topt  with  the  loftie  firs  of  Libanon, 

1  Q    I    and   G.,    'passion.'      Q   3,   Do.,    Dy.,  W.,  'passions'  :    required   by    'them.'      So 
"  to  show  your  passions,"   Kn.   Kn.   (H.   Dods.   VI.    5*4). 

2  Shittim  :    cf.   Nc-i-rr  too  Late  (Grosart,  VIII.  40). 


vm]  Frier  Bacon  467 

Stemd  and  incast  with  burnisht  Ivorie,  55 

And  overlaid  with  plates  of  Persian  wealth, 

Like  Thetis  shall  thou  wanton  on  the  waves, 

And  draw  the  dolphins  1  to  thy  lovely  eyes, 

To  daunce  lavoltas2  in  the  purple1  streames ; 

Sirens,  with  harpes  and  silver  psalteries,  60 

Shall  waight  with  musicke  at  thy  frigots  stem, 

And  entertaine  fair  Margret  with  their  laies.3 

England  and  Englands  wealth  shall  wait  on  thee ; 

Brittaine  shall  bend  unto  her  princes  love, 

And  doe  due  homage  to  thine  excellence,  65 

If  thou  wilt  be  but  Edwards  Marg[a]ret. 

Margret.    Pardon,  my  lord  :   if  Joves  great  roialtie 
Sent  me  such  presents  as  to  Danae  ; 
If  Phoebus  [']ti[r]ed4  in  Latonas  webs, 

Come5  courting  from  the  beautie  of  his  lodge;  70 

The  dulcet  tunes  of  frolicke  Mercuric  — 
Not  °  all  the  wealth  heavens  treasurie  affoords,  — 
Should  make  me  leave  Lord  Lacie  or  his  love. 

Edw.    I  have  learnd  at  Oxford,  then,  this  point  of  schooles,  — 
Ablata  ~  causa,  tollitur  effect  us  :  75 

Lacie8-  — the  cause  that  Margret  cannot  love 
Nor  fix  her  liking  on  the  English  prince,— 
Take  him  away,  and  then  the  effects  will  faile. 
Villaine,  prepare  thy  selfe  ;   for  I  will  bathe 
My  poinard  in  the  bosome  of  an  earle.  80 

Lacie.    Rather  then9  live  and  misse  faire  Margret's  love  !  — 
Prince  Edward,  stop  not  at  the  fatall  doome, 
But  stabb  it  home  :   end  both  my  loves  and  life. 

Marg.    Brave  Prince  of  Wales,  honoured  for  royall  deeds, 
Twere  sinne  to  staine  fair  Venus  courts  with  blood  ;  85 

1  Cf.  Kn.  Kn.  "  dolphin's  eye  "  (H.  Dods.  VI.  574)  ;  "  purple  main,"  etc.  (H.  Dods. 
V-  5*>5,  57O).  Ward  notes  resemblance  of  11.  50-66,  '  lavoltas,'  'purple  plaines,' 
'Thetis,'  etc.,  to  Menafon  (Grosart,  VI.  36).  2  Round  dances;  cf.  Hen.  /'. ,  iii.  5. 

3  Cf.  Tamh.  "  To  entertain  .  .  .  Zcnocrate,"  etc.  4  So  I)y.,  VV.,  for  'attired.'  {,)  I, 

tied  ^  y  3,  t\ed  [  =  incased,  Grosart?].  6  So  ytos.,  and  prob.  Greene.  Eds.,  'came.' 

6  So  ytos.,  Do.,  and  prob.  Greene.      Dy.,  VV'.,   'nor.' 

7  y  3.  —  {,)  i ,  abbata.  b  In  apposition  with  '  him,'  1.  78.^  '•*  than. 


468  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Loves  conquests  ends,  my  lord,  in  courtesie  : 
Spare  Lacie,  gentle  Edward;   let  me  die, 
For  so  both  you  and  he  doe  cease  your  loves. 

Edward.    Lacie  shall  die  as  traitor  to  his  lord. 

Lacie.    I  have  deserved  it,  Edward  ;   act  it  well.  90 

Margret.    What  hopes  the  prince  to  gaine  by  Lacies  death  ? 

Edward.    To  end  the  loves  twixt  him  and  Margeret. 

Marg.    Whv,  thinks  King  Henries  sonne  that  Margret's  love 
Hangs  in  the  uncertaine  ballance  of  proud  time  ? 
That  death  shall  make  a  discord  of  our  thoughts  ?  95 

No,  stab  the  earle,  and  fore  the  morning  sun 
Shall  vaunt  him  thrice  over  the  loftie  east, 
Margret  will  meet  her  Lacie  in  the  heavens. 

Lacie.    If  ought  betides  to  lovely  Marg  [a]  ret 

That  wrongs  or  wrings  her  honour  from  content,  100 

Europes  rich  wealth  nor  Englands  monarchic 
Should  not  allure  Lacie  to  overlive  : 
Then,  Edward,  short  my  life,  and  end  her  J  loves. 

Margret.    Rid  me,  and  keepe  a  friend  worth  many  loves. 

Lacie.    Nay,  Edward,  keepe  a  love  worth  many  friends.  105 

Margret.    And  if  thy  mind  be  such  as  fame  hath  blazde, 
Then,  princely  Edward,  let  us  both  abide 
The  fatall  resolution  of  thy  rage  : 
Banish  thou  fancic,  and  imbrace  revenge, 

And  in  one  toombe  knit  both  our  carkascs,  110 

Whose  hearts  were  linked  in  one  perfect  love. 

Edward  [aside.]     Edward,  art  thou  that  famous  Prince  of  Wales, 
Who  at  Damasco  beat  the  Sarasens, 
And  broughtst  home  triumphe  on  thy  launces  point  ? 
And  shall  thy  plumes  be  puld  by  Venus  downe  ?  115 

Is  it  princely  to  dissever  lovers  leagues,2 
To  part  such  friends  as  glorie  in  their  loves  ? 
Leave,  Ned,  and  make  a  vertue  of  this  fault, 
And  further  Peg  and  Lacie  in  their  loves  : 

1  Dy.  qy.   '  our  '  ?   but  Greene  liked  the  contrast  of  '  my  *  and  '  her.'      Grosart 

2  2  3t  catching  up  'loves'  of'  1.    117,  substitutes  it    for  '  leagues  '  of  1.    116;   consequently 
omits  1.   1 17  altogether. 


vm]  Frier  Bacon  469 

So  in  subduing  fancies  passion,  120 

Conquering  thy  selfe  thou  gctst  the  richest  spoile. — 

Lacie,  rise  up.      Faire  Peggie,  hceres  my  hand  : 

The  Prince  of  Wales  hath  conquered  all  his  thoughts, 

And  all  his  loves  he  yeelds  unto  the  earle. 

Lacie,  enjoy  the  maid  of  Fresingfield  ;  125 

Make  her  thy  Lincolne  countesse  at  the  church, 

And  Ned,  as  he  is  true  Plantagenet, 

Will  give  her  to  thee  franckly  for  thy  wife.1 

Lacie.    Humbly  I  take  her  of  my  soveraignc, 

As  if  that  Edward  gave  me  Englands  right,  130 

And  richt  me  with  the  Albion  diadem. 

Margret.    And  doth  the  English  prince2  mean  true? 
Will  he  vouchsafe  to  cease  his  former  loves, 
And  yeeld  the  title  of  a  countrie  maid 
Unto  Lord  Lacie?  135 

Edward.    I  will,  faire  Peggie,  as  I  am  true  lord. 

Marg.    Then,  lordly  sir,  whose  conquest  is  as  great, 
In  conquering  love,  as  Caesars  victories, 
Margret,  as  milde  and  humble  in  her  thoughts 

As  was  Aspatia3  unto  Cirus  selfe,  140 

Yeelds  thanks,  and,  next  Lord  Lacie,  doth  inshrine 
Edward  the  second  secret  in  her  heart. 

Edw.    Gramercie,  Peggie':  —  now  that  vowes  are  past, 
And  that  your  loves  are  not  to  4  be  revolt," 

Once,  Lacie,  friendes  againe.      Come,  we  will  post  145 

To  Oxford  ;   for  this  day  the  king  is  there, 
And  brings  for  Edward  Castile  Ellinor. 
Peggie,  I  must  go  see  and  view  my  wife  : 
I  pray  God  I  like  her  as  I  loved  thee.*' 
Beside,  Lord  Lincolne,  we  shall  heare  dispute  150 

1  With  II.   2^,   112-128,  compare  Campaspe,  V.    iv.  2  Appendix  C,  2  h. 

3  Milto  of  Phocjra,  whom  Cyrus  the  Younger  used  to  call  Aspasi.i.  See  Plutarch's 
Pen,!fs,  and  /Irtaxerxet.  Ward.  4  O  i  omits.  (,)  3  supplies. 

5  Revolted  =  overturned  If  similar  literal  transference  of  Latin  words  were  not  common 
among  Elizabethans,  one  might  suggest  'revoke,'  i.e.  'renounced,'  citing  xiv.  78,  "a  VG-;L> 
that  may  not  be  r,-i-',kr,"  and  iVr  C/yom.  and  Sir  Cltim.,  "that  mortal  blow  or  stroke  The 
which  shall  causi-  th)  wretched  corpse  this  life  tor  to  revoke."  ti  Appendix  si,  4. 


470  The  ho?^ourable  historic  of  [sc. 

Twixt  Frier  Bacon  and  learned  Vandermast. 
Peggie,  weele  leave  you  for  a  weeke  or  two. 

Margret.    As  it  please  Lord  Lacie  :   but  loves  foolish  looks 
Thinke  footsteps  miles  and  minutes  to  be  houres. 

Lacie.    He  hasten,  Peggie,  to  make  short  returne.  —  155 

But  please  your  honour  goe  unto  the  lodge, 
We  shall  have  butter,  cheese,  and  venison  ; 
And  yesterday  I  brought  for  Marg[a]ret 
A  lustie  bottle  of  neat  clarret  wine: 
Thus  can  we  feast  and  entertaine  your  grace.  160 

Edward.    Tis  cheere,  Lord  Lacie,  for  an  emperour, 
If  he  respect  the  person  and  the  place. 
Come,  let  us  in  ;    for  I  will  all  this  night 
Ride  post  untill  I  come  to  Bacons  cell.  Exeunt. 

[Scene   Ninth.      Oxford."] 
Enter  HENRIE,  EMPEROUR,  CASTILE,  ELLINOR,  VANDERMAST,  BUNGAY. 

Emperour.    Trust  me,  Plantagenet,  these  Oxford  schooles 
Are  richly  seated  neere  the  river  side  : 
The  mountaines1  full  of  fat  and  fallow  deere, 
The  batling2  pastures  laid3  with  kine  and  flocks, 
The  towne  gorgeous  with  high  built  colledges,  5 

And  schollers  seemely  in  their  grave  attire, 
Learned  in  searching  principles  of  art.  — 
What  is  thy  judgement,  Jaquis  Vandermast  ? 

Vandermast.    That  lordly  are  the  buildings  of  the  towne, 
Spatious  the  romes,  and  full  of  pleasant  walkes  ;  10 

But  for  the  doctors,  how  that  they  be  learned, 
It  may  be  meanly,  for  ought  I  can  heere. 

Bungay.    I  tell  thee,  Germane,  Haspurge  holds  none  such, 
None  red  so  deepe  as  Oxenford  containes  : 
There  are  within  our  accademicke  state  15 

1  Cumnor,    Hinksey,    Cuddesdon,    Shotover,   etc.,  can   hardly  be  called   mountains.      The 
ero  s 


1  Cumnor,    Hinksey,    Luddesdon,    Shotover,  etc.,  can   hardly  be  cal 
Kmperour  recalls  the  progress  over  the  Chilterns,  or  Greene  romances. 

2  Nutritious  ;    cf.   battles  and  batten. 

8  <^tos.,  Do.      Possibly  means  'covered.'       But  probably  misprint  for 


ade'  :  —  Dv.,  W. 


ix]  Frier  Bacon  471 

Men  that  may  lecture  it  in  Germanic 

To  all  the  doctors  of  your  Bdgicke  schools. 

Henrie.    Stand  to  him,  Bungay,  charme  this  Vandermast, 
And  I  will  use  thee  as  a  royall  king. 

Vandermast.    Wherein  darest  thou  dispute  with  me  ?  20 

Bungay.    In  what  a  doctor  and  a  friar  can. 

I'andermast.    Before  rich  Europes  worthies  put  thou  forth 
The  doubtfull  question  unto  Vandermast. 

Bungay.    Let  it  be  this,  —  Whether  the  spirites  of  piromancie  or 
geomancie  be  most  predominant  in  magick  ?  25 

I'ander.    I  say,  of  piromancie. 

Bungay.    And  I,  of  geomancie. 

Fonder.    The  cabbalists  that  wright  of  magick  spels, 
As  Hermes,1  Melchie,2  and  Pithagoras, 

Affirme  that,  mongst  the  quadruplicitie  30 

Of  elementall  essence,  terra  is  but  thought 
To  be  a  punctum  squared  to3  the  rest  ; 
And  that  the  compasse  of  ascending  eliments 
Exceed  in  bignesse  as  they  doe  in  height; 

Judging  the  concave  circle  of  the  sonne  35 

To  hold  the  rest  in  his  circomference. 
If,  then,  as  Hermes  saies,  the  fire  be  greatst, 
Purest,  and  onely  giveth  shape  to  spirites 
Then  must  these  demones  that  haunt  that  place 
Be  every  way  superiour  to  the  rest.  40 

Bungay.    I  reason  not  of  elementall  shapes, 
Nor  tell  I  of  the  concave  lattitudes, 
Noting  their  essence  nor  their  qualitie, 
But  of  the  spirites  that  piromancie  calles, 

And  of  the  vigour  of  the  geomanticke  fiends.  45 

I  tell  thee,  Germane,  magicke  haunts  the  grounds,4 
And  those  strange  necromantick  spels 
That  worke  such  shcwcs  and  wondering  in  the  world 
Are  acted  by  those  geomanticke  spirites 
That  Hermes  calleth  terra:  filii.  50 

1  Trismegistus.  '2  Porphyry.  8  an  atom  compared  with.  4  j^tos.  and 

Do  —  I)y.  and  W.,  '  ground.'      The  '  s  '  may  have  been  attracted  from  '  fiends  '  and  '  spch. ' 


47 2  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

The  fierie  spirits  are  but  transparant  shades, 

That  lightly  passe  as  heralts  to  beare  newes  ; 

But  earthly  fiends,  closd  in  the  lowest  deepe, 

Dissever  mountaines,  if  they  be  but  chargd, 

Being  more  grose  and  massie  in  their  power.  55 

Vander.    Rather  these  earthly  geomantike  spirits 
Are  dull  and  like  the  place  where  they  remaine; 
For  when  proud  Lucipher  fell  from  the  heavens, 
The  spirites  and  angels  that  did  sin  with  him, 

Retaind  their  locall  essence  as  their  faults,  60 

All  subject  under  Lunas  continent  : 
They  which  offended  lesse  hang1  in  the  fire, 
And  second  faults  did  rest  within  the  aire  ; 
But  Lucifer  and  his  proud  hearted  fiends 

Were  throwne  into  the  center  of  the  earth,  65 

Having  lesse  understanding  than  the  rest, 
As  having  greater  sinne  and  lesser  grace. 
Therfore  such  grosse  and  earthly  spirits  doe  serve 
For  juglers,  witches,  and  vild  2  sorcerers  ; 

Whereas  the  piromantike  genii3  70 

Are  mightie,  swift,  and  of  far  re  reaching  power. 
But  graunt  that  geomancie  hath  most  force  ; 
Bungay,  to  please  these  mightie  potentates, 
Proove  by  some  instance  what  thy  art  can  doe. 

Bungay.     I  will.  75 

Emper.    Now,  English  Harry,  here  begins  the  game; 
We  shall  see  sport  betweene  these  learned  men. 

JSandermast.     What  wilt  thou  doe  ? 

Bung.    Shew  thee  the  tree,  leavd  with  refined  gold, 
Wheron  the  fearfull  dragon  held  his  seate,  80 

That  watcht  the  garden  cald  Hesperides4 
Subdued  and  wonne  by  conquering  Hercules. 

Vandermast.     Well  done  !  5 

1  Qtos.  and  Do.  —  Dy.  and  W.,  '  hung.' 

2  Dy.   and  W.,  '  vile.'      But  '  Vild  '  is  common  :   see  F   i^. ,  2  A    IV   A.,  Sf>.  G\-f>s\,  etc. 
8  ()   i ,  gemii.  *  Most  of  our  old  writers  use  Hcsp.  a<  the  name  of  a  place. 
6  Ironically.       Kds.  place  after  the  stage  direction  ;   hut  the  ytos.   ma\  stand. 


ix]  Frier  Bacon  473 

Here  BUNGAY  conjures,  and  the  Tree  appeares  with  the  Dragon  shooting  Jiff. 

Henrie,    What  say  you,  royall  lordings,1  to  my  frier  ? 
Hath  he  not  done  a  point  ot  cunning  skill  ?  85 

l-'ander.    Ech  scholler  in  the  nicromantike  spels 
Can  doe  as  much  as  Bungay  hath  pcrformd  : 
But  as  Alcmenas  basterd  ras'd  2  this  tree, 
So  will  I  raise  him  up  as  when  he  lived, 

And  cause  him  pull  the  dragon  from  his  seate,  90 

And  teare  the  branches  peccemeale  from  the  roote.  — 
Hercules  !   Prodi?  prodi,  Hercules  ! 

HERCULES  appcares  in  bis  Lions  skin. 

Hercules.    Quis  me  vult  ? 

bander-mast.    Joves  bastard  sonnc,  thoti  Libian  Hercules, 
Pull  oft  the  sprigs  from  off4  the  Hesperian  tree,  95 

As  once  thou  didst  to  win  the  golden  fruit. 

Hercules.     Fiat. 

Hecre  be  begins  to  breake  the  branches. 

Vander.    Now,  Bungay,  if  thou  canst  by  magicke  charme 
The  fiend,  appearing  like  great  Hercules, 

From  pulling  downe  the  branches  of  the  tree,  100 

Then  art  thou  worthy  5  to  be  counted  learned. 

Bungay.    I  cannot. 

Vander.    Cease,  Hercules,  until!  I  give  thee  charge.  — 
Mightie  commander  of  this  English  He, 

Henrie,  come  from  the  stout  Plantagenets,  105 

Bungay  is  learned  enough  to  be  a  frier; 
But  to  compare  with  Jaquis  Vandermast, 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  must  go  sceke  their  celles 
To  find  a  man  to  match  him  in  his  art. 

I  have  given  non-plus  to  the  Paduans,  1 10 

To  them  of  Sien,''  Florence,  and  Bologna,7 
Rcimes,8  Louain,  and  faire  Rotherdam, 

1  Q  3>  'lordlings. '     2  razed.      3  So  Q  3.    ()  i ,  prodit.     *  G.  would  omit.       6  £)  i,  icorrby. 

fi  Sienna.       For   metre,  A|>|«-ndix  I),   I  ;    for  that  of  1.   Il6,   B,   i  ;    of  II.   120,   148,   162, 

C,  2  c  ;   of  1.  129,  li,  2.  "  So  y  3.      O  i,   Rtlr,gnti.          *  Text  and  metre,  Appendix  E 


474  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

Franckford,  Lutrech,1  and  Orleance  : 

And  now  must  Henrie,  if  he  do  me  right, 

Crowne  me  with  laurell,  as  they  all  have  done.  115 

Enter  BACON. 

Bacon.    All  haile  to  this  roiall  companie,2 
That  sit  to  heare  and  see  this  strange  dispute!  — 
Bungay,  how  standst  thou  as  a  man  amazd  ? 
What,  hath  the  Germane  acted  more  than  thou  ? 

Vandermast.    What  art  thou  that  questions  thus  ?  2  120 

Bacon.    Men  call  me  Bacon. 

Vander.    Lordly  thou  lookest,  as  if  that  thou  wert  learnd; 
Thy  countenance  as  if  science  held  her  seate 
Betweene  the  circled  arches  of  thy  browes. 

Henrie.    Now,   iMonarcks,   hath   the   Germain    found    his   match. 

Emperour.    Bestirre  thee,  Jaquis,  take  not  now  the  foile,3          126 
Least  thou  doest  loose  what  foretime  thou  didst  gaine. 

Vandermast.    Bacon,  wilt  thou  dispute  ? 

Bacon.    Noe,2  unlesse  he  were  more  learnd  than  Vandermast  : 
For  yet,  tell  me,  what  hast  thou  done?  130 

Vandermast.     Raisd   Hercules  to  ruinate  that  tree 
That  Bongay  mounted  by  his  magicke  spels. 

Bacon.    Set  Hercules  to  worke. 

Vander.    Now,  Hercules,  I  charge  thee  to  thy  taske  ; 
Pull  off  the  golden  branches  from  the  roote.  135 

Hercules.    I  dare  not.      Seest  thou  not  great  Bacon  heere, 
Whose  frowne  doth  act  more  than  thy  magicke  can  ? 

Vandermast.     By  all  the  thrones,  and  dominations, 
Vertues,  powers,  and  mightie  hierarchies,4 
I  charge  thee  to  obey  to  Vandermast.  140 

Hercules.    Bacon,  that  bridles  headstrong  Belcephon, 
And  rules  Asmenoth,  guider  of  the  north, 
Bindes  me  from  yeelding  unto  Vandermast. 

1  So  Qtos.         I)y.  and  (}.,  '  Utrecht    [Paris]    and.'      Fleay  and  Ward,  '  Lutetia  and   O  '  ; 
the  compositor    having    probably   been   shunted   bv  the   ut  from    Ms.    '  I.utetia     into  'Utrech.' 
Dekker  spells  the  latter  '  Utrich  '  (  -  D.  S.  1606)        I.utetia  (or  Paris)  has  been  already  men- 
tioned in  iv.    50  ;    whereas  Utrecht  was  not  \et  a  university  town. 

2  Seen.  6,  p.  473.          3  Mar.  Witte  and  Set.  (1570),  "  Not  every  foile  doth  makeafalle." 
4  (,)   i,  berarcbiti. 


ix]  Frier  Bacon  475 

Hen.    How  now,  Vandcrmast !   have  you  met  with  your  match  ? 

Vandermast.    Never  before  wast  knowne  to  Vandermast  145 

That  men  held  devils  in  such  obedient  awe. 
Bacon  doth  more  than  art,  or  els  I  faile. 

Emperour.    Why,  Vandermast,  art  thou  overcome  ?  — 
Bacon,  dispute  with  him,  and  trie  his  skill. 

Bacon.    I  come1  not,  Monarckes,  for  to  hold  dispute  150 

With  such  a  novice  as  is  Vandermast ; 
I  came2  to  have  your  royalties  to  dine 
With  Frier  Bacon  heere  in  Brazcnnose; 
And,  for  this  Germane  troubles  but  the  place, 

And  holds  this  audience  with  a  long  suspence,  155 

He  send  him  to  his  accademie  hence.  — 
Thou,  Hercules,  whom  Vandermast  did  raise, 
Transport  the  Germane  unto  Haspurge  straight, 
That  he  may  learne  by  travaile,  gainst  the  spring,3 
More  secret  doomes  and  aphorisms  of  art.  160 

Vanish  the  tree,  and  thou  away  with  him  ! 

Exit  the  Spirit  with  VANDERMAST  and  the  Tree. 

Emperour.    Why,  Bacon,  whether  doest  thou  send  him  ? 

Bacon.    To  Haspurge  :   there  your  highnesse  at  returne 
Shall  finde  the  Germane  in  his  studie  safe. 

Henrie.    Bacon,  thou  hast  honoured  England  with  thy  skill,     165 
And  made  faire  Oxford  famous  by  thine  art  : 
I  will  be  English  Henrie  to  thy  selfe;  — 
But  tell  me,  shall  we  dine  with  thee  to-day  ? 

Bacon.    With  me,  my  lord  ;   and  while  I  fit  my  cheere, 
See  where  Prince  Edward  comes  to  welcome  you,  I  70 

Gratious  as4  the  morning  starre  of  heaven.  [Exit. 

Enter  EDWARD,  LACIE,  WARREN,  ERMSBIE. 

Emperour.    Is  this  Prince  Edward,  Henries  royall  sonne  ? 
How  martiall  is  the  figure  of  his  face  ! 
Yet  lovely  and  beset  with  amorets/' 

1  So  Qtos.  —  Dy.  and  W.  alter  '  came.'  8  So  eds.  —  Qtos. ,  springs. 

•  So  y  3,  and  eds.,  and  (I  think)  y  i.  —  G.   '  come.'  *  Appendix  (.',   i  n 

6  Love-kindling  looks;  cf.  xii.  8.    Dvce.    So  also  Never  too  Late,  "  wilie  amorettesot  u  curtizan." 


476  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

tienrie.    Ned,  where  hast  thou  been?  1-5 

Edivard.    At  Framingham,  my  lord,  to  trie  your  buckes 
If  they  could  scape  the  *  teisers  or  the  toile. 
But  hearing  of  these  lordly  potentates 
Landed,  and  prograst  up  to  Oxford  towne, 

I  posted  to  give  entertaine  to  them:  180 

Chiefe  to  the  Almaine  monarke  ;   next  to  him, 
And  joynt  with  him,  Castile  and  Saxonie 
Are  welcome  as  they  may  be  to  the  English  court. 
Thus  for  the  men  :   but  see,  Venus  appeares, 

Or  one  that  overmatcheth  2  Venus  in  her  shape  !  185 

Sweete  Ellinor,  beauties  highswelling  pride, 
Rich  natures  glorie  and  her  wealth  at  once, 
Faire  of  all  faires,  welcome  to  Albion; 
Welcome  to  me,  and  welcome  to  thine  owne, 
If  that  thou  dainst  the  welcome  from  my  selfe.  190 

Ellinor.    Martiall  Plantagenet,  Henries  high  minded  sonne, 
The  marke  that  Ellinor  did  count  her  aime, 
I  likte  thee  fore  I  saw  thee  :   now  I  love, 
And  so  as  in  so  short  a  time  I  may  ; 

Yet  so  as  time  shall  never  breake  that  so,  195 

And  therefore  so  accept  of  Ellinor. 

Castile.    Feare  not,  my  lord,  this  couple  will  agree, 
If  love  may  creepe  into  their  wanton  eyes  :  — 
And  therefore,  Edward,  I  accept  thee  heere, 
Without  suspence,  as  my  adopted  sonne.  2OO 

tienrie.    Let  me  that  joy  in  these  consorting  greets, 
And  glorie  in  these  honors  done  to  Ned, 
Yeeld  thankes  for  all  these  favours  to  my  sonne, 
And  rest  a  true  Plantagenet  to  all. 

Enter  MILKS  with  a  ffotb  and  trenchers  and  salt. 

Miles.  Salvetc,  omnes  reges,  that  govern  your  greges^  205 

In  Saxonie  and  Spaine,  in  England  and  in  Almaine  ' 
For  all  this  frolicke  rable  must  I  cover  the4  table 
With  trenchers,  salt,  and  cloth;  and  then  looke  for  your  broth. 

'  Q  I,  they.          2  G.  omits  '  over.'      See  Appendix  D,  3  b.  3  LI.  205-209,  as  prose 

in  ytos.      See  note  on  vii.  40  el  scy.  *  Q  I ,  thre. 


ix]  Frier^  Bacon  477 

Emperour.    What  pleasant  fellow  is  this  ? 

Henrie.    Tis,  my  lord,  Doctor  Bacons  poore  scholler.  210 

Miles  [tf.f/Wf] .  My  maister  hath  made  me  sewer  l  of  these  great 
lords  ;  and,  God  knowes,  I  am  as  serviceable  at  a  table  as  a  sow  is 
under  an  apple-tree  :  tis  no  matter;  their  cheere  shall  not  be  great,  and 
therefore  what  skils  where  the  salt  stand,  before  or  behinde  ?  [£*•/'/.] 

Castile.    These  schollers  knowes  more  skill  in  actiomes,  215 

How  to  use  quips  and  sleights  of  sophistrie, 
Than  for  to  cover  courtly  for  a  king. 

\Re~\enter  MILES  with  a  message  of  pottage  and  broth  ;  and,  after  him, 

BACON. 

Aliles.  Spill,  sir  ?  why,  doe  you  thinke  I  never  carried  twopeny 
chop2  before  in  my  life  ? 

By  your  leave,  nobile  decus,  for  here  comes  Doctor  Bacons  pecus? 
Being  in  his  full  age  to  carrie  a  messe  of  pottage.  221 

Bacon.    Lordings,  admire  not  if  your  cheere  be  this, 
For  we  must  keepe  our  accademicke  fare  ; 
No  riot  where  Philosophic  doth  raine  : 

And  therefore,  Henrie,  place  these  potentates,  225 

And  bid  them  fall  unto  their  frugal!  cates. 

Emp.    Presumptuous  Frier  !   what,  scoftst  thou  at  a  king  ? 
What,  doest  thou  taunt  us  with  thy  pesants  fare, 

And  give  us  cates  fit4  for  countrey  swaines  ? 

Henrie,  proceeds  this  jest  of  thy  consent,  230 

To  twit  us  with  such  5  a  pittance  of  such  price  ? 
Tell  me,  and  Fredcricke  will  not  greeve  thefe]  long. 

Henrie.     By  Henries  honour,  and  the  royall  faith 
The  English  monarcke  beareth  to  his  friend, 

I  knew  not  of  the  frier's  feeble  fare,  235 

Nor  am  I  plcasd  he  entertaines  you  thus. 

1  One  who  sets  the  table  ;    Fr.  aaeoir.      So  Fletcher,  K.  ,i  W.   III.   I.       (Centur\.) 

-  Chopped  meat  in  broth  ;  I  N.  E.  1).).  'J  1.1.   220-221,  as  prose  in  ^tos. 

*  Wagner  supplies  'but'  before  'for'  ;    the   ernpcror  supplied   a   gulp  of  r.ige   before    'tit.' 
Appendix  C,  I  c. 

•'  O  -5.  —  Do.,  l)y.  omit  'such  '  ;  G.  and  W.  omit  'a.'  This  smoothing  out  of  the  ana 
pest  has  no  historical  warrant. 


478  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Bacon.    Content  thee,  Fredericke,  for  I  shewd  the  1  cates, 
To  let  thee  see  how  schollers  use  to  feede ; 

How  little  meate  refines  our  English  wits. 

Miles,  take  away,  and  let  it  be  thy  dinner.  240 

Miles.  Marry,  sir,  I  wil.  This  day  shall  be  a  festival  day  with  me;2 
For  I  shall  exceed  in  the  highest  degree.  [Exit  MILES.] 

Bacon.    I  tell  thee,  monarch,  all  the  Germane  peeres 
Could  not  afFoord  thy  entertainment  such, 

So  roiall  and  so  full  of  maiestie,  245 

As  Bacon  will  present  to  Fredericke ; 
The  basest  waiter  that  attends  thy  cups 
Shall  be  in  honours  greater  than  thy  selfe ; 
And  for  thy  cates,  rich  Alexandria  drugges3 

Fecht  by  carveils4  from  Aegypts  richest  straights,  250 

Found  in  the  wealthy  strond  of  Affrica, 
Shall  royallize  the  table  of  my  king; 
Wines  richer  than  the  Gyptian  courtisan 
Quaft  to  Augustus  kingly  countermatch, 

Shalbe  carrowst  in  English  Henries  feasts  ;  255 

Candie  shall  yeeld  the  richest  of  her  canes; 
Persia,  downe  her  volga  5  by  canows, 
Send  down  the  secrets  of  her  spicerie ; 
The  Africke  dates,  mirabolanes6  of  Spaine, 

Conserves  and  suckets  "  from  Tiberias,  260 

Cates  from  Judea,  choiser  than  the  lampe8 

1  So  Qtos.  and  G.      Do.,  '  thee  '  ;    Dy.  and  W.,  '  these'  unnecessarily. 

2  Dy.  and  W.,  "This  .    .    .   me,"  as  a  verse. 

3  Spices. 

4  A  small,  light,  and  fast  ship;    caravel  (TV.  E.  D.}. 

5  "This,"  observes  my  friend,  Mr.  W.   N.  Lettsom,  "is   much  as  if  France  were  to  send 
claret  and  burgundy  down   her  Thames."      Dyce.      Quoted   as  with  approval  by  G.  and  W. 
But  may  not  Greene  indulge  in  a  figure  of  speech  f      The  Volga  was  the  typical  great  river  of  the 
Elizabethans,  their  Amazon  or  Mississippi  ;    and  is  here  used  tor  the  Euphrates  by  antonomasia. 
£)   i  does  not  capitalize  this  i'o/ga}  and  the  emphasis  is  on  her.      See  Appendix  C,  I  a. 

6  So  in  Greene's  Nut.  Disco-v.   Coosenage.      <,Hos.  and  Do.,  mirabiles. 
"  Sugar  plums. 

8  Dyce  regards  the  passage  as  mutilated.  Mitford's  '  balm  '  does  not  fit  the  sense.  For 
'lamprey'  (from  W.  Bell  and  Fleay),  see  Ward.  1  think  that  explanation  is  good;  for 
Greene  is  not  averse  to  coining  words,  and  if  he  is  translating  murana  by  '  lamp,'  the  figure  in 
the  next  line  suggests  th.it  a  paronomasia  may  have  won  favor  with  him  by  reason  of  a  false 
derivation  from  Xa/X7rp6s  (sc.  the  Lampris,  a  brilliant  deep-sea  fish). 


x]  Frier  Bacon  479 

That  fiered  Rome  with  sparkes  of  gluttonie, 

Sh'all  bewtifie  the  board  for  l  Fredericke  : 

And  therfore  grudge  not  at  a  frier's  feast.  \Exeunt.~\ 


[Scene  Tenth.     Near  the  Keepers  lodge  in  Fresingfieldl\ 

Enter  two  gentlemen,  LAMBERT  and  SERI.SBY-  with  the  Keeper. 

Lambert.    Come,  frolicke  keeper  of  our  lieges  game, 
Whose  table  spred  hath  ever  venison 
And  jacks  3  of  wines  to  welcome  passengers, 
Know  I  am  in  love  with  jolly  Marg[a]ret, 

That  over-shines  our  damsels  as  the  moone  5 

Darkneth  the  brightest  sparkles  of  the  night. 
In  Laxfield4  heere  my  land  and  living  lies: 
He  make  thy  daughter  joynter  5  of  it  all, 
So  thou  consent  to  give  her  to  my  wife  ; 
And  I  can  spend  five  hundreth  markes  a  yeare.  10 

Serlble.    I  am  the  landslord,6  Keeper,  of  thy  holds, 
By  coppie  all  thy  living  lies  in  me; 
Laxfield  did  never  see  me  raise  my  due  : 
I  will  infeofe  faire  Marg[a]ret  in  all, 
So  she  will  take  her  to  a  lustie  squire.  I  5 

Keeper.    Now,  courteous  gent  [i]  Is,  if  the  keepers  girle 
Hath  pleasd  the  liking  fancie  of  you  both, 
And  with  her  beutie  hath  subdued  your  thoughts, 
Tis  doubtfull  to  decide  the  question. 

It  joyes  me  that  such  men  of  great  esteeme  20 

Should  lay  their  liking  on  this  base  estate, 
And  that  her  state  should  grow  so  fortunate 
To  be  a  wife  to  meaner  men  than  you  : 
But  sith  such  squires  will  stoop  to  keepers  fee," 
I  wil^  to  avoid  displeasure  of  you  both,  25 

Call  Margrct  forth,  and  she  shall  make  her  choise.  Exit. 

1  W.  alters  to  'of.'  4  Six  miles  N.  K.  of  Framlingham.  "  estate. 

2  {„)  I,  Scrlby.  6  jointure  or  jointress.       Wagner. 
8  pitchers  of  wine,  '  blacke  pots.'  °  <,)  3  and  eds.      J,)  i,  fans/or  J. 


480  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Lambert.    Content,1  —  Keeper  ;   send  her  unto  us. 
Why,  Serlsby,  is  thy  wife  so  lately  dead, 
Are  all  thy  loves  so  lightly  passed  over, 
As  thou  canst  wed  before  the  yeare  be2  out  ?  30 

Serlsby.    I  live  not,  Lambert,  to  content  the  dead, 
Nor  was  I  wedded  but  for  life  to  her : 
The  grave3  ends  and  begins  a  maried  state. 

Enter   MARGRET. 

Lambert.    Peggie,  the  lovelie  flower  of  all  townes, 
SufFolks  fair  Hellen,  and  rich  Englands  star,  35 

Whose  beautie,  tempered  with  her  huswiferie, 
Maks  England  talke  of  merry  Frisingfield  ! 

Serlsby.    I  cannot  tricke  it  up  with  poesies, 
Nor  paint  my  passions  with  comparisons, 

Nor  tell  a  tale4  of  Phebus  and  his  loves  :  40 

But  this  beleve  me,  —  Laxfield  here  is  mine, 
Of  auncient  rent  seven  hundred  pounds  a  yeare, 
And  if  thou  canst  but  love  a  countrie  squire, 
I  will  infeoffe  thee,  Marg  [a]  ret,  in  all  : 
I  cannot  flatter;   trie  me,  if  thou  please.  45 

Mar.    Brave  neighbouring  squires,  the  stay  of  SufFolks  clime, 
A  keepers  daughter  is  too  base  in  gree  6 
To  match  with  men  accoumpted  of  such  worth  : 
But  might  I  not  displease,  I  would  reply. 

Lambert.    Say,  Peggy  ;    nought  shall  make  us  discontent.  50 

Mar.    Then,  gentils,  note  that  love  hath  little  stay, 
Nor  can  the  flames  that  Venus  sets  on  fire 
Be  kindled  but  by  fancies  motion  : 
Then  pardon,  gentils,  if  a  maids  reply 

Be  doubtful,  while  I  have  debated  with  my  selfe  55 

Who,  or  of  whome,  love  shall  constraine  me  like. 

1  G.  '  Content  tbcc,'  by  analogy  with  ix.  237,  x.  73.  But  the  meaning  is  "We  arc 
satisfied."  Malone  on  the  margin  of  his  1630  quarto  (Bodl.)  suggests  '  good  '  after  '  Content.' 
See  Appendix  C,  l  b  for  retention  of  Q  i,  as  above. 

a  W.  reads  'is.'  3  (,)  i,  graves.  4  Q  I,  tall. 

&  So  Do.,   Dy.,  W.,  and  G.  —  £)  i,  daughters. 


x]  Frier  Bacon  481 

Serlsby.    Let  it  be  me;  and  trust  me,  Marg[a]ret, 
The  meads  invironed  with  the  silver  streames, 
Whose  bailing  pastures  fatneth  1  all  my  flockes, 
Yeelding  forth  fleeces  stapled-  with  such  woole  60 

As  Lempster  cannot  yeelde  more  finer  stuffe, 
And  fortie  kine  with  faire  and  burnisht3  heads, 
With  strouting4  duggs,  that  paggle5  to  the  ground, 
Shall  serve  thy  da[i]ry,  if  thou  wed  with  me. 

Lambert.    Let  passe  the  countrie  wealth,  as  flocks  and  kine,      65 
And  lands  that  wave  with  Ceres  golden  sheves, 
Filling  my  barnes  with  plentie  of  the  fieldes  ; 
But,  Peggie,  if  thou  wed  thy  selfe  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  have  garments  of  imbrodred  silke, 

Lawnes,  and  rich  networks  for  thy  head  attyre  :  70 

Costlie  shalbe  thy  fa[i]re  abiliments, 
If  thou  wilt  be  but  Lamberts  loving  wife. 

Margret,    Content  you,  gentles,  you  have  proferd  faire, 
And  more  than  fits  a  countrie  maids  degree  : 

But  give  me  leave  to  counsaile  me  a  time,  75 

For  fancie  bloomes  not  at  the  first  assault ; 
Give  me  .   .   .  6  but  ten  days'  respite,  and  I  will  replye, 
Which  or  to  whom  my  selfe  affectionats. 

Serlsby.    Lambert,  I  tell  thee,  thourt  importunate ; 
Such  beautie  fits  not  such  a  base  esquire  :  80 

It  is  for  Serlsby  to  have  Marg  [a]  ret. 

Lamb.    Thinkst  thou  with  wealth  to  over  reach  me  ? 
Serlsby,  I  scorne  to  brooke  thy  country  braves  : 
I  dare  thee,  coward,  to  maintaine  this  wrong, 
At  dint  of  rapier,  single  in  the  field.  85 

Serlsby.    He  aunswere,  Lambert,  what  I  have  avoucht.— 
Margret,  farewel ;   another  time  shall  serve.  Exit  SERLSBY. 

Lambert.    He  follow.  —  Peggie,  farewell  to  thy  selfe; 
Listen  how  well  He  answer  for  thy  love.  Exit  LAMBERT. 

1  £)  I  retained.      Do.,  Dy.  object  to  this  common  form  of  the  plural. 

2  Consisting  of  wool  fit  for  the  market,  such  as  Leominster  (in  Herefordshire)  cannot  excel. 
8  So  J^tos.      But  Do.,  'furnish'd.'  4  protuberant.  5  hang  swaying; 

perhaps  by  a  telescoping  of  '  paddle  '  and  '  waggle. '      Ward  suggests  fusion  of '  paddle  '  and  '  bag.' 
6  She  pauses  to  think.      Dy.  would  omit  '  Give  me.'      But  sec  Appendix  D,  3  a. 


482  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Margeret.    How  fortune  tempers  lucky  happes  with  frowns,      90 
And  wrongs  J  me  with  the  sweets  of  my  delight ! 
Love  is  my  blisse,  and  love  is  now  my  bale. 
Shall  I  be  Hellen  in  my  forward2  fates, 
As  I  am  Hellen  in  my  matchles  hue, 

And  set  rich  Suffolke  with  my  face  afire  ?  95 

If  lovely  Lacie  were  but  with  his  Peggy  ? 
The  cloudie  darckenesse  of  his  bitter  frowne 
Would  check  the  pride  of  those  aspiring  squires. 
Before  the  terme  of  ten  dayes  be  expired, 

When  as  they  looke  for  aunswere  of  their  loves,  100 

My  lord  will  come  to  merry  Frisingfield, 
And  end  their  fancies  and  their  follies  both. — 
Til  when,  Peggie,  be  blith  and  of  good  cheere. 

Enter  a  Post  with  a  letter  and  a  bag  of  gold. 

Post.    Fair  lovely  damsell,  which  way  leads  this  path  ? 
How  might  I  post  me  unto  Frisingfield  ?  105 

Which  footpath  leadeth  to  the  keepers  lodge? 

Margeret.    Your  way  is  ready,  and  this  path  is  right: 
My  selfe  doe  dwell  hereby  in  Frisingfield  ; 
And  if  the  keeper  be  the  man  you  seeke, 
I  am  his  daughter  :    may  I  know  the  cause  ? 

Post.    Lovely,  and  once  beloved  of  my  lord, — 
No  mervaile  if  his  eye  was  lodgd  so  low, 
When  brighter  bewtie  is  not  in  the  heavens  : 
The  Lincolne  earle  hath  sent  you  letters  here, 

And,  with  them,  just  an  hundred  pounds  in  gold.  115 

Sweete,  bonny  wench,  read  them,  and  make  reply. 

Margret.    The  scrowls  that  Jove  sent  Danae, 
Wrapt  in  rich  closures  of  fine  burnisht  gold, 
Were  not  more  welcome  than  these  lines  to  me. 
Tell  me,  whilst  that  I  doe  unrip  the  scales,  120 

Lives  Lacie  well  ?   how  fares  my  lovely  lord  ? 

Post.     Well,  if  that  wealth  may  make  men  to  live  well. 

1  Dy.  queries  'wrings.'      No. 

2  So  Qtos.  ;   but  cds.  read  '  froward,'  which  Qros.  have  in  1.  142.  ;    but  '  forward  '  was  com- 
mon in  this  sense.      Cf.  Se/imus,  11.    184,  271,   1292,   1548. 


x]  Frier  Bacon  483 

The  letter  and  MARGRET  reads  it. 

The  bloomes  of  the  Almond  tree  grow  in  a  night,  and  vanish  in  a  morne  ; 
the  flies  hie  mere?  (faire  Peggie},  take  life  with  the  Sun,  and  die  with  the 
dew  ;  fancie  that  slippeth  in  with  a  gase,  goeth  out  with  a  winke  ;  and  too 
timely  loves  have  ever  the  shortest  length.  I  write  this  as  thy  grefe,  and  my 
folly,  who  at  Frisingjield  lovd  that  which  time  bath  taught  me  to  be  but 
meane  dainties :  eyes  are  dissemblers,  and  fancie  is  but  queasie ;  therefore 
know,  Margret,  1  have  chosen  a  Spanish  Ladie  to  be  my  wife,  cheefe  waight- 
ing  woman  to  the  Princesse  Ellinour ;  a  Lady  faire,  and  no  lesse  faire  than 
thy  selfe,  honorable  and  wealthy.  In  that  I  forsake  thee,  I  leave  thee  to 
thine  own  liking  ,-  and  for  thy  dowrie  I  have  sent  thee  an  hundred  pounds  ; 
and  ever  assure  thee  of  my  favour,  which  shall  availe  thee  and  thine  much. 

Farewell. 

Not  thine,  nor  bis  owne, 

EDWARD  LACIE. 

Fond  Ata?,  doomer  of  bad  heading  fates,  137 

That  wrappes2  proud  Fortune  in  thy  snaky  locks, 

Didst  thou  inchaunt  my  byrth-day  with  such  stars 

As  lightned  mischeefe  from  their  in  fancie  ?  140 

If  heavens  had  vowd,  if  stars  had  made  decree, 

To  shew  on  me  their  froward  influence, 

It  Lacie  had  but  lovd,  heavens,  hell,  and  all, 

Could  not  have  wrongd  the  patience  of  my  minde. 

Post.    It  grieves  me,  damsell ;  but  the  earle  is  forst  145 

To  love  the  lady  by  the   kings  command. 

Margret.    The  wealth  combinde  within  the  English  shelves,3 
Europes  commaunder,  nor  the  English  king, 
Should  not  have  movde  the  love  of  Peggie  from  her  lord.4 

Post.    What  answere  shall  I  returne  to  my  lord?  150 

Margret.    First,  for  thou  cam'st  from  Lacie  whom  I  lovd,  — 
Ah,  give  me  leave  to  sigh  at  every5  thought  !  — 

1  For  '  haemerac  '  :=  ephemerae. 

2  A  common  form.      But  Dy.,  silently,  '  wrapp'st '  ;  and  so  W. 
8  Cliffs.      So,  also,  Selimus,   1710. 

4  Dy.,  "  11.  147-148,  corrupted."  Not  in  the  least.  In  1.  149  Dy.,  qy.  '  from  him  '  ; 
but  see  Appendix  D,  3  b. 

f>  Dy.,  W.,  '  very.'  But  M.  sighs  at  each  thought  as  it  is  enumerated  j  hence  the  Idiunat 
in  1.  156.  Appendix  C,  2  b. 


484  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Take  thou,  my  freind,  the  hundred  pound  he  sent ; 

For  Margrets  resolution  craves  no  dower  : 

The  world  shalbe  to  her  as  vanitie  ;  155 

Wealth,  trash  -,   love,  hate  ;   pleasure,  dispaire  : 

For  I  will  straight  to  stately  Fremingham, 

And  in  the  abby  there  be  shorne  a  nun, 

And  yeld  my  loves  and  libertie  to  God. 

Fellow,  I  give  thee  this,  not  for  the  newes,  1 60 

For  those  be  hatefull  unto  Marg[a]ret, 

But  for  thart  Lacies  man,  once  Margrets  love. 

Post.    What  I  have  heard,  what  passions  I  have  scene, 
He  make  report  of  them  unto  the  Earle.  [Exit  POST.] 

Margret.   Say  that  she  joyes  his  fancies  be  at  rest,  165 

And  praies  that  his  misfortune  *  may  be  hers.  Exit. 

[Scene  Eleventh.     Frier  Bacons  cell.~\ 

Enter  FRIER  BACON  drawing  the  courtaines  with  a  white  stick,  a  booke  in  his 
hand,  and  a  lampe  lighted  by  him ;  and  the  Brasen  Head,  and  MILES 
with  weapons  by  him. 

Bacon.    Miles,  where  are  you  ? 

Miles.    Here,  sir. 

Bacon.    How  chaunce  you  tarry  so  long  ? 

Miles.  Thinke  you  that  the  watching  of  the  Brazen  Head  craves 
no  furniture?  I  warrant  you,  sir,  I  have  so  armed  my  selfe  2  that 
if  all  your  devills  come,  I  will  not  feare  them  an  inch.  6 

Bacon.    Miles,  thou  knowst  that  I  have  dived  into  hell, 
And  sought  the  darkest  pallaces  of  fiendes  ; 
That  with  my  magic  spels  great  Belcephon 

Hath  left  his  lodge  and  kneeled  at  my  cell;  10 

The  rafters  of  the  earth  rent  from  the  poles, 
And  three-formd  Luna  hid  her  silver  looks, 
Trembling  upon  her  concave  contcncnt,3 
When  Bacon  red  upon  his  magick  booke. 
With  seven  years  tossing  nigromanticke  charmes,  15 

1  Dy.   '  misfortunes.'      No.  ~  G.,  "  with  food  "  ?  3  hollow  sphere.  — Ward 


xi]  Frier  Bacon  485 

Poring  upon  darke  Hecats  principles, 
I  have  framd  out  a  monstrous  head  of  brasse, 
That,  by  the  inchaunting  forces  of  the  devil, 
Shall  tell  out  strange  and  uncoth  Aphorismes, 

And  girt  faire  England  with  a  wall  of  brasse.  20 

Bungay  and  I  have  watcht  these  threescore  dayes, 
And  now  our  vitall  spirites  crave  some  rest : 
If  Argos  l  livd,  and  had  his  hundred  eyes, 
They  could  not  overwatch  Phobeters2  night. 

Now,  Miles,  in  thee  rests  Frier  Bacons  weale ;  25 

The  honour  and  renowne  of  all  his  life 
Hangs  in  the  watching  of  this  Brazen-Head  ; 
Therefore  I  charge  thee  by  the  immortall  God, 
That  holds  the  soules  of  men  within  his  fist,3 

This  night  thou  watch  ;   for  ere  the  morning  star  30 

Sends  out  his  glorious  glister  on  the  north, 
The  head  will  speakc  :   then,  Miles,  upon  thy  life, 
Wake  me ;   for  then  by  magick  art  He  worke 
To  end  my  seven  yeares  taske  with  excellence. 

If  that  a  winke4  but  shut  thy  watchfull  eye,  35 

Then  farewell  Bacons  glory  and  his  fame  ! 
Draw  closse  the  courtaines,  Miles  :   now,  for  thy  life, 
Be  watchfull,  and—  Here  be fallctb  asleepe. 

Miles,  So  ;  I  thought  you  would  talke  your  selfe  a  sleepe  anon  ; 
and  'tis  no  mervaile,  for  Bungay  on  the  dayes,  and  he  on  the  nights, 
have  watcht  just  these  ten  and  fifty  dayes  :  now  this  is  the  night, 
and  tis  my  taske,  and  no  more.  Now,  Jesus  blesse  me,  what  a 
goodly  head  it  is!  and  a  nose  !  you  talke  of  nos  autem  glorificare  ; 5 
but  heres  a  nose  that  I  warrant  may  be  cald  nos  autem  popelare* 
for  the  people  of  the  parish.  Well,  I  am  furnished  with  weapons  : 
now,  sir,  I  will  set  me  downe  by  a  post,  and  make  it  as  good  as  a 

1  Argus. 

2  Phobetor,  son  of  Morpheus  :  Ov.  .Met.  xi.  640.    The  tf>6ftijrpov  (terror)  of  the  Septuagint. 
8  Fist   "  klingt   unpassend  "    to    Wagner,    but    not    to   Greene   (O.    F.  1.   25),    nor   Shak. 

(3  //.   l'I.   II.  i.    i<J4),  nor  Stanyhurst  (Aench,  \.   28).      Wagner's  '  fee'  is  unnecessary. 

*  i2  '  >  mvintc. 

&  From  the  Nos  autem  gloriari  (Rom.  Liturgy).  Ward.- — -Adam  (Lkgl,  1.  224)  makes 
the  same  joke.  6  Milesian  for  pijpularc.  —  (,)  3  :  popclara. 


486  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

watch-man  to  wake  me,  if  I  chaunce  to  slumber.  I  thought, 
Goodman  Head,  I  would  call  you  out  of  your  memento*  .  .  .  2 
Passion  a  God,  I  have  almost  broke  my  pate  ! 3  Up,  Miles,  to 
your  taske  ;  take  your  browne  bill4  in  your  hand;  heeres  some  of 
your  maister's  hobgoblins  abroad.  51 

With  this  a  great  noise.      The  HEAD  speaker. 

Head.    Time  J.S. 

Miles.  Time  is  !  Why,  Master  Brazenhead,  you  have  such  a 
capitall  nose,  and  answer  you  with  sillables,  '  Time  is  '  ?  Is  this 
my  all5  maister's  cunning,  to  spend  seven  years  studie  about  'Time 
is  '  ?  Well,  sir,  it  may  be  we  shall  have  some  better  orations  of  it 
anon  :  well,  He  watch  you  as  narrowly  as  ever  you  were  watcht, 
and  He  play  with  you  as  the  nightingale  with  the  slowworme;6  lie 
set  a  pricke  against  my  brest.  Now  rest  there,  Miles.  .  .  . 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  me,  I  have  almost  killd  my  selfe."  Up, 
Miles;  list  how  they  rumble.  61 

Head.    Time  was. 

Miles.  Well,  Frier  Bacon,  you  spent8  your  seven  yeares  studie 
well,  that  can  make  your  Head  speake  but  two  wordcs  at  once, 
'Time  was.'  Yea,  marie,  time  was  when  my  maister  was  a  wise 
man,  but  that  was  before  he  began  to  make  the  Brasen-head.  You 
shall  lie  while  your  arce  ake,  and  your  Head  speake  no  better. 
Well,  I  will  watch,  and  walke  up  and  downe,  and  be  a  perepatetian 
and  a  philosopher  of  Aristotles  stampe.  What,  a  freshe  noise  ? 
Take  thy  pistols  in  hand,  Miles.  ~o 

Heere  the  HEAD  sp  fakes  ;  and  a  lightning  jlasheth  forth,  and  a  hand  appear  a, 
that  breakcth  down  the  HEAD  with  a  hammer. 

Head.    Time  is  past.9 

Miles.  Maister,  maister,  up!  hels  broken  loose;  your  Head 
speakes;  and  theres  such  a  thunder  and  lightning,  that  I  warrant 

1  Sc.:   mori,  as  on  a  Death's  head.        Ward. 

2  \_NoJs,  knocks  his  head  against  the  post.]       Grosart. 

3  In  11.  49,  60,  69  :    [<i  great   noise].       Dy.,  and   W.      But   that   would   have  awakened 
Bacon  earlier.       Beside  1.  49,  Q.   i,  are  letters  ivn  and  \our — residue  of  stage  direction. 

4  pike.  5  Do.,  Dy  'all  my  '  •    W.  omits.      But  y  I  is  intelligible. 
6  the  snake  that  strikes.        Ward.  7  Against  his  pike.  8  Q  3  '  have  spent.' 
'•'  Dy.  and  W.  place  above  the  stage  direction. 


xi]  Frier  Bacon  487 

all  Oxford   is  up  in  armes.      Out  of  your  bed,  and  take  a  browne 
bill  in  your  hand  ;   the  latter  day  is  come.  75 

Bacon.    Miles,  I  come.1      Oh,  passing  warily  watcht ! 
Bacon  will  make  thee  next  himselfe  in  love. 
When  spake  the  Head  ? 

Miles.  When  spake  the  Head  !  did  not  you  say  that  hee  should 
tell  strange  principles  of  philosophic  ?  Why,  sir,  it  speaks  but  two 
wordes  at  a  time.  81 

Bacon.    Why,  villaine,  hath  it  spoken  oft  ? 

Miles.  Oft !  I,  marie,  hath  it,  thrice ;  but  in  all  those  three 
times  it  hath  uttered  but  seven  wordes. 

Bacon.    As  how  ?  85 

Miles.  Marrie,  sir,  the  first  time  he  said  '  Time  is,'  as  if  Fabius 
Cumentator2  should  have  pronounst  a  sentence  ;  [the  second  time3] 
he  said,  'Time  was'-,  and  the  third  time,  with  thunder  and  light- 
ning, as  in  great  choller,  he  said,  'Time  is  past.' 

Bacon.    'Tis  past  indeed.      A[h],  villaine,  time  is  past  :  90 

My  life,  my  fame,  my  glorie,  all  4  are  past !  — 
Bacon,  the  turrets  of  thy  hope  are  ruind  downe, 
Thy  seven  yeares  studie  lieth  in  the  dust ; 
Thy  Brazen-head  lies  broken  through  a  slave, 

That  watcht,  and  would  not  when  the  Head  did  will. —  95 

What  said  the  Head  first  ? 

Miles.    Even,  sir,  'Time  is.' 

Bacon.    Villain,  if  thou  had'st  cald  to  Bacon  then, 
If  thou  hadst  watcht,  and  wakte  the  sleepie  frier, 
The  Brazen-head  had  uttered  aphorismes,  100 

And  England  had  been  circled  round  with  brasse  : 
But  proud  Astmcroth,5  ruler  of  the  north, 
And  Demegorgon,8  maister  of  the  fates, 
Grudge  that  a  mortal!  man  should  worke  so  much. 

1  Dy.  and  W.  insert  [Rises  and  c><ma  /«,r;i'<m/].      G.  rightly  disapproves.      Bacon   is   half 
asleep  and  does  not  behold  the  mischief  until  after  '  love.' 

2  ytos,  W.,and  G.  —  Do.,  Dy.,    '  Commentator.'      But,  as  G.   explains,  Miles  is  strug- 
gling with  a  reminiscence  of  '  Cunctator. ' 

8  Inserted  by  Do.,  and  other  eds.      But  why  systematize  Miles? 
4  W.,  '  are  all.'     No.  6  Asmenoth. 

6  Demogorgon  :  0.  F.  iz8y.  Mysterious  nether  deity  mentioned  as  early  as  the  fifth 
century;  and  by  Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  Spenser.  (See  N.K.D.) 


488  The  honourable  hist  or  ie  of  [sc. 

Hell  trembled  at  my  deepe  commanding  spels,  105 

Fiendes  frownd  to  see  a  man  their  overmatch ; 

Bacon  might  host  more  than  a  man  might  boast ; 

But  now  the  braves  of  Bacon  hath  an  end, 

Europes  conceit  of  Bacon  hath  an  end, 

His  seven  ycares  practise  sorteth  to  ill  end  .  1 10 

And,  villaine,  sith  my  glorie  hath  an  end, 

I  will  appoint  thee  fatal *  to  some  end. 

Villaine,  avoid  !   get  thee  from  Bacons  sight ! 

Vagrant,  go  rome  and  range  about  the  world, 

And  perish  as  a  vagabond  on  earth  !  115 

Miles.    Why,  then,  sir,  you  forbid  me  your  service? 

Bacon.    My  service,  villaine,  with  a  fatall  curse, 
That  direfull  plagues  and  mischiefe  fall  on  thee.  118 

Miles.    Tis  no  matter,  I  am  against  you  with  the  old  proverb,— 
The  more  the  fox  is  curst,2  the  better  he  fares.      God  be  with  you, 
sir  :    He  take  but  a  booke  in  my  hand,  a  wide  sleeved  gowne  on  my 
backe,  and  a  crowned  cap3  on  my  head,  and  see  if  I  can  want  pro- 
motion. 

Bacon.    Some  fiend  or  ghost  haunt  on  thy  wearie  steps, 
Untill  they  doe  transport  thee  quicke  to  hell  :  125 

For  Bacon  shall  have  never  merrie  day, 
To  loose  the  fame  and  honour  of  his  Head.  Exit. 


[Scene  Twelfth.      At  Court.'] 

Enter  EMPEROUR,  CASTILE,    HENRIE,  ELLINOR,  EDWARD,  LACIE,  RAPHE. 

Emper.    Now,  lovely  Prince,  the  prince  4  of  Albions  wealth, 
How  fares  the  Lady  Ellinor  and  you  ? 
What,  have  you  courted  and  found  Castile  fit 
To  answer  England  in  equivolence  ? 
Wilt  be  a  match  twixt  bonny  Nell  and  thee  ? 

Edw.    Should  Paris  enter  in  the  courts  of  Greece, 
And  not  lie  fetter'd  in  faire  Hellen's  lookes  ? 

1  Dy.  '  to  some  fatal  end,'  and  so  G.,  W.  3  Corner  cap.      Ward. 

2  Obsolete  for  'coursed.'      Miles's  pun.  *  Dy.,  W.  'prime.'      Prob. 


xn]  Frier  Bacon  489 

Or  Phoebus  scape  those  piercing  amorits 

That  Daphne  glaunsed  at  his  deitie  ? 

Can  Edward,  then,  sit  by  a  flame  and  freeze,  10 

Whose  heat  puts  Hellen  and  faire  Daphne  downe  ? 

Now,  Monarcks,  aske  the  ladie  if  we  gree. 

Hen.    What,  madam,  hath  my  son  found  grace  or  no  ? 

Ellinor.    Seeing,  my  lord,  his  lovely  counterfeit, 
And  hearing  how  his  minde  and  shape  agreed,  15 

I  come1  not,  troopt  with  all  this  warlike  traine, 
Doubting  of  love,  but  so  effectionat 
As2  Edward  hath  in  England  what  he  wonne  in  Spaine. 

Castile.    A  match,  my  lord  ;   these  wantons  needes  must  love  : 
Men  must  have  wives,  and  women  will  be  wed  :  20 

Lets  hast  the  day  to  honour  up  the  rites. 

Rapbe.    Sirha  Harry,  shall  Ned  marry  Nell  ? 

Henry.    I,  Raphe  ;   how  then  ? 

Rapbe.  Marrie,  Harrie,  follow  my  counsaile :  send  for  Frier 
Bacon  to  marrie  them,  for  heele  so  conjure  him  and  her  with  his 
nigromancie,  that  they  shall  love  togither  like  pigge  and  lambe 
whilest  they  live.  27 

Castile.  But  hearst  thou,  Raphe,  art  thou  content  to  have  Ellinor 
to  thy  ladie  ? 

Raphe.    I,  so  she  will  promise  me  two  things.  30 

Castile.     Whats  that,  Raphe? 

Raphe.  That  shee  will  never  scold  with  Ned,  nor  fight  with 
me.  —  Sirha  Harry,  I  have  put  her  downe  with  a  thing  unpossible. 

Henry.      Whats  that,  Raphe  ?  34 

Raphe.  Why,  Harrie,  didst  thou  ever  see  that  a  woman  could 
both  hold  her  tongue  and  her  handes  ?  No  :  but  when  egge-pies 
growes  on  apple-trees,  then  will  thy  gray  mare  proove  a  bag-piper. 

Ernperour.  What  saies3  the  Lord  of  Castile  and  the  Earle  of  Lin- 
colne,  that  they  arc  in  such  earnest  and  secret  talke  ? 

Castile.    I  stand,  my  lord,  amazed  at  his  talke,  40 

How  he  discourseth  of  the  constancie 

1  Possible;   but  Dy.,  W.   'came.' 

2  that.      Dy.  "line  corrupted."      No.       Appendix  £>,  3  b. 
«  Probable;  but  Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  'say.' 


49°  The  honourable  hist  or  ie  of  [sc. 

Of  one  surnam'd,  for  beauties  excellence, 
The  Faire  Maid  of  merrie  Fresingfield. 

Henrie.    Tis  true,  my  lord,  tis  wondrous  for  to  Keare ; 
Her  beautie  passing  Marces1  parramour,  45 

Her  virgins  right  2  as  rich  as  Vestas  was  : 
Lacie  and  Ned  hath  told  me  miracles. 

Castile.    What  saies  Lord  Lacie  ?   shall  she  be  his  wife  ? 

Lacie.    Or  els  Lord  Lacie  is  unfit  to  live. — 

May  it  please  your  highnesse  give  me  leave  to  post  50 

To  Fresingfield,  He  fetch  the  bonny  girle, 
And  proove,  in  true  apparance  at  the  court, 
What  I  have  vouched  often  with  my  tongue. 

Henrie.    Lacie,  go  to  the  quirie  3  of  my  stable, 

And  take  such  coursers  as  shall  fit  thy  turne  :  55 

Hie  thee  to  Fresingfield,  and  bring  home  the  lasse, * 
And,  for  her  fame  flies  through  the  English  coast, 
If  it  may  please  the  Ladie  Ellinor, 
One  day  shall  match  your  excellence  and  her. 

Ellinor.    We  Castile  ladies  are  not  very  coy  ;  60 

Your  highnesse  may  command  a  greater  boone  : 
And  glad  were  I  to  grace  the  Lincolne  earl 
With  being  partner  of  his  marriage  day. 

Edward.    Gramercie,  Nell,  for  I  do  love  the  lord, 
As  he  thats  second  to  my  selfe  5  in  love.  65 

Raphe.  You  love  her  ?  —  Madam  Nell,  never  beleeve  him  you, 
though  he  sweares  he  loves  you. 

Ellinor.    Why,  Raphe  ? 

Raphe.  Why,  his  love  is  like  unto  a  tapsters  glasse  that  is  broken 
with  every  tuch  ;  for  he  loved  the  faire  maid  of  Fresingfield  once 
out  of  all  hoe.6  —  Nay,  Ned,  never  wincke  upon  me:  I  care  not,  I. 

Henrie.  Raphe  tels  all ;  you  shall  have  a  good  secretarie  of 
him. —  73 

1  For  '  Man's  ' — so  eds.  2  Dy.,  'rite,'  needlessly.      Perfectly  clear. 

3  For  querry  (equerry)  5   so  eds.     But  Q  3  'quiry.'  4  Appendix  A,  I. 

5  Dy. ,  W.,  'thyself.'  G.,  as  above,  for  Edw.  means  "I  love  Lacie  because  he  loves 
Margaret  almost  as  well  as  I  love  you." 

6  Beyond  recall,  "out  of  cry."  Cf.  the  American  slang  "  out  of  sight,"  =  in  excess.  Or 
is  that  a  corruption  of  autgexeicbnet  f 


Frier  Bacon  491 

But,  Lacie,  haste  thee  post  to  Fresingfield ; 

For  ere  thou  hast  fitted  all  things  for  her  state,  75 

The  solemne  marriage  day  will  be  at  hand. 

Lade.    I  go,  my  Lord.  Exit  Lade. 

Ernperour.    How  shall  we  passe  this  day,  my  lord  ? 

Henrie.    To  horse,  my  lord  ;   the  day  is  passing  faire, 
Weele  flie  the  partridge,  or  go  rouse  the  deere.  80 

Follow,  my  lords  ;  you  shall  not  want  for  sport. 

Exeunt. 

[Scene  Thirteenth.     Frier  Bacons  cell.~] 

Enter  FRIER  BACON  with  FRIER  BUNGAY  to  bis  cell. 

Bungay.    What  meanes  the  frier  that  frolickt  it  of  late, 
To  sit  as  melancholic  in  his  cell 1 
As  if  he  had  neither  lost  nor  wonne  to-day  ? 

Bacon.    Ah,  Bungay,2  .  .  .  my  Brazen-head  is  spo[i]l'd, 
My  glorie  gone,  my  seven  yeares  studie  lost !  5 

The  fame  of  Bacon,  bru[i]ted  through  the  world, 
Shall  end  and  perish  with  this  deepe  disgrace. 

Bun.    Bacon  hath  built  foundation  of3  his  fame 
So  surely  on  the  wings  of  true  report, 

With  acting  strange  and  uncoth  miracles,  10 

As  this  cannot  infringe  what  he  deserves. 

Bacon.    Bungay,  sit  down,  for  by  prospective  skill 
I  find  this  day  shall  fall  out  ominous  : 
Some  deadly  act  shall  tide  me  ere  I  sleep ; 

But  what  and  wherein  little  can  I  gesse,  15 

My  minde  is  heavy,  what  so  ere  shall  hap.4 

Enter  two  Schollers,  sonnes  to  LAMBERT  and  SERLBY.      Knocke. 

Whose  that  knocks  ? 

Bungay.    Two  schollers  that  desires  to  speake  with  you, 

1  Q  I  repeats  the  line.  -  Appendix  C,  I  h.  8  Q  I  on. 

4  So  G.  and  W.  —  Qtos,  Do.,  Dy.  give  the  line  to  Bungay. — After  '  hap,'  I)y. ,  and  W. 
[  Knocking  •within^  and  after  'come  in'  [Enter  ttuo  Scholars],  But  I  think  with  G.  that 
£)  i  may  be  right  for,  "the  stage  may  have  been  divided  into  two  compartments." 


492  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Bacon.    Bid  them  come  in.  — 
Now,  my  youths,  what  would  you  have  ?  20 

1  Scholler.    Sir,  we  are  SufFolkemen  and  neighbouring  friends  ; 
Our  fathers  in  their  countries  lustie  squires  ; 

Their  lands  adjoyne  :   in  Crackfield  *  mine  doth  dwell, 
And  his  in  Laxfield.      We  are  colledge-mates, 

Sworne  brothers,  as  our  fathers  live  as  friendes.  25 

Bacon.    To  what  end  is  all  this  ? 

2  Scholler.    Hearing  your  worship  kept  within  your  cell 
A  glasse  prospective,  wherin  men  might  see 

What  so  their  thoughts  or  hearts  desire  could  wish, 

We  come  to  know  how  that  our  fathers  fare.  30 

Bacon.    My  glasse  is  free  for  every  honest  man. 
Sit  downe,  and  you  shall  see  ere  long,2 
How  or  in  what  state  your  friendly  fathers  live.3 
Meane  while,  tell  me  your  names. 

Lambert.    Mine  Lambert.  35 

2  Scholler.    And  mine  Serlsbie. 

Bacon.    Bungay,  I  smell  there  will  be4  a  tragedie. 

Enter5  LAMBERT  and  SERLSBIE  with  rapiers  and  daggers. 

Lambert.    Serlsby,  thou  hast4  kept  thine  houre4  like  a  man  ; 
Th'art  worthie  of  the  title  of  a  squire, 

That  durst,  for  proofe  of  thy  affection  40 

And  for  thy  mistresse  favour,  prize6  thy  bloud. 
Thou  knowst  what  words  did  passe  at  Fresingfield, 
Such  shamelesse  braves  as  manhood  cannot  brooke : 
I,"  for  I  skorne  to  beare  such  piercing  taunts, — 
Prepare  thee,  Serlsbie  ;   one  of  us  will  die.  45 

Serlsbie.    Thou  seest  I  single  [meet]  thee  [in]  the  field,8 
And  what  I  spake,  He  maintaine  with  my  sword  : 
Stand  on  thy  guard,  I  cannot  scold  it  out. 
And  if  thou  kill  me,  thinke  I  have  a  sonne, 

1  Cratfield.      Nine  miles  from  Framl.      Ward. 

2  So  Qtos,  allowing  for  a  foot-pause  after  '  Sit  down.'    But  if  the  4  ft.  line  is  not  intentional, 
W.'s  reading  is  best  "  ere  long  ;  how  |  Or  in, "etc.      Dy.  reads,  "  ere  long,  [sirs,]  how  "  |  . — 
G,  "ere  [it  be]  long"  |  .          3  Q  I,  father  lives.  4  Appendix  B,  i  and  a. 

5  In  the  upper  stage.  6  risk.  7  ay.  8  Insertions  by  Dy.      Cf.  x.  85. 


Frier  Bacon  493 

That  lives  in  Oxford  in  the  Brodgateshall,1  50 

Who  will  revenge  his  fathers  bloud  with  bloud. 

Lambert.    And,  Serlsbie,  I  have  there  a  lusty  boy, 
That  dares  at  weapon  buckle  with  thy  sonne, 
And  lives  in  Broadgates  too,  as  well  as  thine  : 
But  draw  thy  rapier,  for  weele  have  a  bout.2  55 

Bacon.    Now,  lustie  yonkers,  looke  within  the  glasse,8 
And  tell  me  if  you  can  discerne  your  sires. 

/  Scot.    Serlsbie,  tis  hard  ;  thy  father  offers  wrong 
To  combat  with  my  father  in  the  field. 

2  Schol.    Lambert,  thou  liest,  my  fathers  is  the  abuse,4  60 

And  thou  shalt  find  it,  if  my  father  harme.6 

Bungay.    How  goes  it,  sirs  ? 

/  Scholler.    Our  fathers  are  in  combat  hard  by  Fresingfield. 

Bacon.    Sit  still,  my  friendes,  and  see  the  event. 

Lambert.  Why  standst  thou,  Serlsbie  ?  doubtst  thou  of  thy  life  ? 
A  venie,6  man  !  fair  Margret  craves  so  much.  66 

Serlsbie.    Then  this  for  her. 

/  Scholler.    Ah,  well  thrust ! 

2  Scholler.    But  marke  the  ward. 

They "  fight  and  kill  ech  other. 

Lambert.    Oh,  I  am  slaine!  70 

Serlsbie.    And  I,  —  Lord  have  mercie  on  me  ! 

1  Scholler.    My  father  slaine  !  —  Serlby,  ward  that. 

2  Scholler.    And  so  is  mine  !8 — Lambert,  He  quite  thee  well. 

The  two  Schollers  stab  0//[V]  another. 
Bungay.    O  strange  strattagem  ! 

Bacon.    See,  Frier,  where  the  fathers9  both  lie  dead  !  —  75 

Bacon,  thy  magicke  doth  effect  this  massacre : 

1  Now  Pembroke.  2  Q  i,  about. 

8  Up  to  this  point  Bacon  has  been  preparing  the  glass  ;  after  this,  the  friars  know  only  what 
the  scholars  impart.  4  cause  of  offence. 

6  So  Q  i.  and  Dy.  — Q  3  has  '  suffers  harm.'  £)  4  and  W.  '  have  harm.'  1  have  heard 
'  harm '  used  intransitively  in  the  west  of  Ireland. 

6  bout.      Shak.  M.W.W.  I.  i.  296.  <  The  fathers. 

8  G.  finds  difficulties.      But  the  text  is  clear  :    "  My   .    .    .   slaine  "   is  answered  by  "  And 
.  .  .  mine  "  ;    "  Serlby  .  .  .  that  "   by   "  Lambert  .  .  .  well."      Appendix    C,    2  <•  ;    D,  3  a. 

9  Dy.,  G.,  W.  query  'scholars.'      No.       Bacon  has  now  stepped  to  the  glass,  and  for  the 
first  time  sees  the  catastrophe  in  Suffolk. 


494  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

This  glasse  prospective  worketh  manie  woes ; 

And  therefore  seeing  these  brave  lustie  Brutes,1 

These  friendly  youths,  did  perish  by  thine  art, 

End  all  thy  magicke  and  thine  art  at  once.  80 

The  poniard  that  did  end  the2  fatal  1  3  lives, 

Shall  breake  the  cause  efficiat  4  of  their  woes. 

So  fade  the  glasse,  and  end  with  it  the  showes 

That  nigromancie  did  infuse  the  christall  with. 

He  breakes  the  glass. 

Bungay.    What  means  learned  Bacon  thus  to  breake  his  glasse  ? 

Bacon.    I  tell  thee,  Bungay,  it  repents  me  sore  86 

That  ever  Bacon  meddled  in  this  art. 
The  houres  I  have  spent  in  piromanticke  spels, 
The  fearefull  tossing  in  the  latest  night 

Of  papers  full  of  nigromanticke  charmes,  90 

Conjuring  and  adjuring  divels  and  fiends, 
With  stole  and  albe  and  strange  pentaganon  ; 5 
The  wresting  of  the  holy  name  of  God, 
As  Sother,6  Elaim,  and  Adonaie,7 

Alpha,  Manoth,  and  Tetragramiton,8  95 

With  praying  to  the  five-fould9  powers  of  heaven, 
Are  instances  that  Bacon  must  be  damde 
For  using  divels  to  countervaile  his  God.  — 
Yet,  Bacon,  cheere  thee,  drowne  not  in  despaire : 
Sinnes  have  their  salves,  repentance  can  do  much;10  100 

Thinke  Mercie  sits  where  Justice  holds  her  seate, 
And  from  those  wounds  those  bloudie  Jews  did  pierce, 
Which  by  thy  magicke  oft  did  bleed  a  fresh, 
From  thence  for  thee  the  dew  of  mercy  drops, 

To  wash  the  wrath  of  hie  Jehovahs  ire,  105 

And  make  thee  as  a  new  borne  babe  from  sinne.  — 

1  Q  i,  '  brutes,'  but  evidently  in  the  sense  of  '  braves  '  or  '  Britons.'       See  R.D.  1.  ii.  124 
and  N.E.D.  2  Dy.  and  W.  'their.'  3  fated. 

4  W.  reads  '  efficient  '  ;  but  it  is  possible  that  Greene  intended  this  more  heroic  formation. 
6  Dy.  and  W.  '  pentageron  '  in  view  of  ii.  49  ;  but  Greene  may  have  written  '  pentagonon.' 
6  Zwr?7p.  "  J2  3»  '  ^l0'111  ar>d  Adonai.' 

8  Q  3>  '  Tetragrammaton  '  ;  the  four-lettered  symbol  of  the  inerrable  name. 
IJ  Which  of  the  magical  hierarchies  is  uncertain.       See  Ward,  0.  E.  D.  pp.  2.67,  268. 
10  11.    100-106.      Cf.  F'austus,  xiv.   72  and  77. 


xiv]  Frier  Bacon  495 

Bungay,  He  spend  the  remnant  of  my  life 

In  pure  devotion,  praying  to  my  God 

That  he  would  save  what  Bacon  vainly  lost.  Exit. 

[  Scene  Fourteenth.     A  Meadow  near  the  Keepers  lodge.~\ 

Enter  MARGRET  in  nuns  apparel,  Keeper,  her  father,  ana"  their  Friend. 

Keep.    Margret,  be  not  so  headstrong  in  these  vows  : 
O,  burie  not  such  beautie  in  a  cell, 
That  England  hath  held  famous  for  the  hue  ! 
Thy  fathers  haire  like  to  the  silver  bloomes 

That  beautifie  the  shrubs  of  Affrica,  5 

Shall  fall  before  the  dated  time  of  death, 
Thus  to  forgoe  his  lovely  Marg[a]ret. 

Margret.    A[h],  father,  when  the  hermonie  of  heaven 
Soundeth  the  measures  of  a  lively  faith, 

The  vaine  illusions  of  this  flattering  world  10 

Seemes  odious  to  the  thoughts  of  Marg[a]ret. 
I  loved  once,  —  Lord  Lacie  was  my  love; 
And  now  I  hate  my  selfe  for  that  I  lovd, 
And  doated  more  on  him  than  on  my  God  ; 

For  this  I  scourge  my  selfe  with  sharpe  repents.  15 

But  now  the  touch  of  such  aspiring  sinnes 
Tels  me  all  love  is  lust  but  love  of  heavens  : 
That  beautie  usde  for  love  is  vanitie  ; 
The  world  containes  naught  but  alluring  baites, 
Pride,1  flatterie,  and  inconstant  thoughts.  20 

To  shun  the  pricks  of  death,2  I  leave  the  world, 
And  vow  to  meditate  on  heavenly  blisse, 
To  live  in  Framingham  a  holy  nunne, 
Holy  and  pure  in  conscience  and  in  deed  ; 

And  for  to  wish  all  maides  to  learne  of  me  25 

To  seek  heavens  joy  before  earths  vanitie. 

Friend.    And   will  you,  then,  Margret,  be  shorn  a  nunne,  and  so 
leave  us  all  ? 

1  Appendix  C,  I  a.  2  z  Cor.  xv.  56. 


496  The  honourable  historic  of  [sc. 

Margret.    Now  farewell  world,  the  engin  of  all  woe  ! 
Farewell  to  friends  and  father  !      Welcome  Christ  !  30 

Adiew  to  daintie  robes  !   this  base  attire 
Better  befits  an  humble  minde  to  God 
Than  all  the  show  of  rich  abilliments. 
Love1   ...   oh  love! — and,  with  fond  love,  farewell 
Sweet  Lacie,  whom  I  loved  once  so  deare  !  35 

Ever  be  well,  but  never  in  my  thoughts, 
Least  I  offend  to  think  on  Lacies  love  : 
But  even  to  that,  as  to  the  rest,  farewell. 

Enter  LACIE,  WARRAIN,  ERMSBIE,  booted  and  spurd. 

Lacie.    Come  on,  my  wags,  weere  near  the  keepers  lodge. 
Heere  have  I  oft  walkt  in  the  watrie  meades,  40 

And  chatted  with  my  lovely  Marg[a]  ret. 

Warraine.    Sirha  Ned,  is  not  this  the  keeper  ? 

Lacie.    Tis  the  same. 

Ermsbie.    The    old    lecher  hath  gotten   holy   mutton   to   him ;   a 
nunne,  my  lord.  45 

Lacie.    Keeper,  how  farest  thou  ?   holla,  man,  what  cheere  ? 
How  doth  Peggie,  thy  daughter  and  my  love  ? 

Keeper.    Ah,  good  my  lord  !    O,  wo  is  me  for  Pegge  ! 
See  where  she  stands  clad  in  her  nunnes  attire, 

Readie  for  to  be  shorne  in  Framingham  :  50 

She  leaves  the  world  because  she  left  2  your  love. 
Oh,  good  my  lord,  perswade  her  if  you  can  ! 

Lacie.    Why,  how  now,  Margret !   what,  a  malecontent  ? 
A  nunne  ?   what  holy  father  taught  you  this, 

To  taske  your  selfe  to  such  a  tedious  life  55 

As  die  a  maid  ?   twere  injurie  to  me, 
To  smother  up  such  bewtie  in  a  cell. 

Margret.    Lord  Lacie,  thinking  of  thy  3  former4  misse, 
How  fond  the  prime  of  wanton  yeares  were  spent 
In  love  (Oh,  fie  upon  that  fond  conceite,  60 

1  Appendix  C,  I  a.  2  Wagner  emends  (?)  'lost.' 

8  Eds.  alter  to  '  my.'      But  M.  may  mean  "  in  view  of  how  you  faik-d  me  "  or  "in  view 
of  your  mistaken  fancy  for  me."  4  Q  3,  forme. 


xiv]  Frier  Bacon  497 

Whose  hap  and  essence  hangeth  in  the  eye ! ), 
I  leave  both  love  and  loves  content  at  once, 
Betaking  me  to  him  that  is  true  love, 
And  leaving  all  the  world  for  love  of  him. 

Lacy.    Whence,  Peggie,  comes  this  metamorphosis  ?  65 

What,  shorne  a  nun,  and  I  have  from  the  court 
Posted  with  coursers  to  convaie  thee  hence 
To  Windsore,  where  our  manage  shalbe  kept  ! 
Thy  wedding  robes  are  in  the  tailors  hands. 
Come,  Peggy,  leave  these  peremptorie  vowes.  70 

Margret.    Did  not  my  lord  resigne  his  interest, 
And  make  divorce  'twixt  Marg[a]ret  and  him  ? 

Lade.    Twas  but  to  try  sweete  Peggies  constancie. 
But  will  fair  Margret  leave  her  love  and  lord  ? 

Margret.    Is  not  heavens  joy  before  earths  fading  blisse,  75 

And  life  above  sweeter  than  life  in  love  ? 

Lacy.    Why,1  then,  Margret  will  be  shorne  a  nun  ? 

Marg.    Margret  hath  made  a  vow  which  may  not  be  revokt. 

Warraine.    We  cannot  stay,  my  lord  ; l  and  if  she  be  so  strict, 
Our  leisure  graunts  us  not  to  woo  a  fresh.  80 

Errnsby.    Choose  you,  fair  damsell, — yet  the  choise  is  yours,— 
Either  a  solemne  nunnerie  or  the  court, 
God  or  Lord  Lacie :  which  2  contents  you  best, 
To  be  a  nun  or  els  Lord  Lacies  wife  ? 

Lacie.    A  good  motion.  —  Peggie,  your  answer  must  be  short. 

Margret.    The  flesh  is  frayle  :   my  lord  doth  know  it  well          86 
That  when  he  comes  with  his  inchanting  face, 
What  so  ere  betyde,  I  cannot  say  him  nay. 
Oft"  goes  the  habite  of  a  maidens  heart, 

And,  seeing  fortune  will,  faire  Fremingham,  90 

And  all  the  shew  of  holy  nuns,  farewell ! 
Lacie,  for  me,  if  he  wilbe  my  lord. 

Lacie.    Peggie,  thy  lord,  thy  love,  thy  husband.3 
Trust  me,  by  truth  of  knighthood,  that  the  king 
Staies  for  to  marry  matchles  Ellinour,  95 

1  For  metre  and  text  of  11.   77,  79,  99,  see  respectively  Appendix  C,   i  a;   B,  2,  and  D, 
•$  a;  C,  z  f.  2Q'>  "weicb.  8  G.  pronounces  '  husseband.'        Yes 


49 8  The  honourable  historie  of  [sc. 

Until  I  bring  thee  richly  to  the  court, 

That  one  day  may  both  marry  her  and  thee.  — 

How  saist  thou,  Keeper?   art  thou  glad  of  this  ? 

Keeper.    As  if1  the  English  king  had  given 
The  parke  and  deere  of  Frisingfield  to  me.  100 

Erms.    I  pray  thee,  my  Lord  of  Sussex,  why  art  thou  in  a  broune 
study  ? 

War.    To  see  the  nature  of  women  ;  that  be  they  never  so  neare 
God,  yet  they  love  to  die  in  a  mans  armes. 

Lade.    What  have  you   fit   for  breakefast  ?      We  have  hied 
And  posted  all  this  night  to  Frisingfield.2  1 06 

Mar.    Butter  and  cheese,  and  humbl[e]s3  of  a  deere, 
Such  as  poore  keepers  have  within  their  lodge.2 

Lade.    And  not  a  bottle  of  wine  ? 

Margret.    Weele  find  one  for  my  lord.  1 10 

Lade.    Come,  Sussex,   .   .   .   lets4  in:   we  shall  have  more, 
For  she  speaks  least,  to  hold  her  promise  sure.2  \_Exeunt. ~\ 

[Scene   Fifteenth.     Frier  Bacons  cell.~\ 

Enter  a  Devill 5  to  seeke  MILES. 

Devi!!.    How  resiles  are  the  ghosts  of  hellish  spirites, 
When  everie  charmer  with  his  magick  spels 
Cals  us  from  nine-fold  trenched  Phlegethon,6 
To  scud  and  over-scoure  the  earth  in  post 

Upon  the  speedie  wings  of  swiftest  winds  !  5 

Now  Bacon  hath  raisd  me  from  the  darkest  deepe, 
To  search  about  the  world  for  Miles  his  man, 
For  Miles,  and  to  torment  his  lasie  bones 
For  careles  watching"  of  his  Brazen-head. 

See  where  he  comes  :    Oh,  he  is  mine.  10 

Enter  MILES  with  a  goivne  and  a  corner  cap. 

Miles.    A   scholler,  quoth  you  !   marry,  sir,  I   would    I   had   benc 
made  a  botlemaker   when    I   was   made  a  scholler ;    for   I   can  get 

1  See  note  I,  p.  497.  2  {,)  i  has  lines  105-108,  1 1  i-i  12,  as  prose.      Eds.  as  above. 

3  entrails.  *  Eds.  Met  us.'     But  see  Appendix  C,  I  b.  5  Q  I  :  Deuill. 

6  <,)  I  :   B/egiton;  (^  3,  Fhlegiton.  "  Q  I,  ivatcbidg. — Q  3  corrects. — G.  qy.  '  watchadge. ' 


xv]  Frier  Bacon  499 

neither  to  be  a  deacon,  reader,1  nor  schoolemaister,  no,  not  the 
clarke  of  a  parish.  Some  call  me  dunce  ;  another  saith,  my  head  is 
as  full  of  Latine  as  an  egs  full  of  oatemeale  :  thus  I  am  tormented, 
that  the  devil  and  Frier  Bacon  haunts  me.  —  Good  Lord,  hecrs  one 
of  my  maisters  devils  !  He  goe  speake  to  him.  —  What,  Maister 
Plutus,  how  chere  you  ? 

Devi//.      Doost  thou  know  me?  19 

Miles.  Know  you,  sir !  why,  are  not  you  one  of  my  maisters 
devils,  that  were  wont  to  come  to  my  maister,  Doctor  Bacon,  at 
Brazennose  ? 

Devil.    Yes,  marry,  am  I. 

Miles.  Good  Lord,  M  [aister]  Plutus,  I  have  scene  you  a  thou- 
sand times  at  my  maisters,  and  yet  I  had  never  the  manners  to 
make  you  drinke.  But,  sir,  I  am  glad  to  see  how  conformable  you 
are  to  the  statute.2  —  I  warrant  you,  hees  as  yeomanly  a  man  as  you 
shall  see  :  marke  you,  maisters,  heers  a  plaine  honest  man,  without 
welt  or  garde.a — But  I  pray  you,  sir,  do  you  come  lately  from  hel  ? 

Devil.    I,  marry  :  how  then  ?  30 

Miles.  Faith,  tis  a  place  I  have  desired  long  to  see  :  have  you 
not  good  tipling-houses  there  ?  may  not  a  man  have  a  lustie  Her 
there,  a  pot  of  good  ale,  a  paire  of  cardes,  a  swinging  peece  of 
chalke,3  and  a  browne  toast  that  will  clap  a  white  wastcoat 4  on  a 
cup  of  good  drinke?  35 

Devil.    All  this  you  may  have  there. 

Miles.  You  are  for  me,  freinde,  and  I  am  for  you.  But  I  pray 
you,  may  I  not  have  an  office  there  ? 

Devil.    Yes,  a  thousand  :   what  wouldst  thou  be  ?  39 

Miles.  By  my  troth,  sir,  in  a  place  where  I  may  profit  my  selfe. 
I  know  hel  is  a  hot  place,  and  men  are  mervailous  drie,  and  much 
drinke  is  spent  there;  I  would  be  a  tapster. 

Devil.    Thou  shalt. 

Miles.  Theres  nothing  lets  me  from  going  with  you,  but  that  tis 
a  long  journey,  and  I  have  never  a  horse.  45 

Devil.    Thou  shalt  ride  on  my  backe. 5 

1  I.e.  in  the  church.  '2  I.e.  against  facings  and  trimmings.     Moux'tn  MuceJorui 

uses  the  same   phrase  (H.  Dods.  VII,  21^).  8  For  his  ale-account.       But  (i.  qy.  'cheese.' 

4  bring  it  to  a  froth.      °  So,  as  late  as  Newfanglc  in  /..  Will  to  L.  ami  Bailiff  in  Kn.  Kn. 


500  The  honourable  hist  or  ie  of  [sc. 

Miles.  Now  surely  her[e]s  a  courteous  devil,  that,  for  to  pleas- 
ure1 his  friend,  will  not  stick  to  make  a  jade  of  him  self.  —  But  I 
pray  you,  goodman  friend,  let  me  move  a  question  to  you. 

Dev.    Whats  that  ?  50 

Miles.    I  pray  you,  whether  is  your  pace  a  trot  or  an  amble  ? 

Dev.    An  amble. 

Miles.  Tis  well ;  but  take  heed  it  be  not  a  trot  -,  but  tis  no  mat- 
ter, He  prevent  it.  [Stoops.] 

Dev.    What  doest  ?  55 

Miles.  Mary,  friend,  I  put  on  my  spurs ;  for  if  I  find  your  pace 
either  a  trot  or  els  uneasie,  He  put  you  to  a  false  gallop  ;  He  make 
you  feele  the  benefit  of  my  spurs. 

Dev.    Get  up  upon  my  backe. 

Miles.  O  Lord,  here's  even  a  goodly  marvel,  when  a  man  rides 
to  hell  on  the  devil's  back  !  Exeunt :  [the  Devil]  roaring. 

!    .<•_£ 

[Scene  Sixteenth.      At  Court.~\ 

Enter  the  EMPEROUR  with  a  point lesse  sword ;  next  the  KING  OF  CASTILE  car- 
rying a  sword  with  a  point ;  LACY  carrying  tbe  globe ;  EDWARD  ;  WAR- 
RAINE  carrying  a  rod  of  gold  with  a  dove  on  it ;  ~  ERMSBY  with  a  crowne 
and  sceptre  ;  tbe  QUEENE  ;  [PRINCESS  ELINOR]  with  the  faire  Maide  of 
Fresingjield  on  her  left  hand ;  HENRY  ;  BACON  ;  with  other  Lords 
attending. 

Edward.    Great  potentates,  earth's  miracles  for  state, 
Think  that  Prince  Edward  humbles  at  your  feet, 
And,  for  these  favours,  on  his  martial  sword 
He  vows  perpetuall  homage  to  yourselves, 
Yeelding  these  honours  unto  Ellinour.  5 

Henrie.    Gramercies,  lordings  ;   old  Plantagenet, 
That  rules  and  swayes  the  Albion  diademe, 
With  teares  discovers  these  conceived  joyes, 
And  vows  requitall  if  his  men  at  armes, 
The  wealth  of  England,  or  due  honours  done  10 

1  Q  i  (B.  M.)  ends  with  this  word. 

2  The  curtana  or   '  pointless  sword  '  of  mercy  ;  the  '  pointed  sword  '  of  justice  ;  the  '  golden 
rod  *  of  equity. 


xvi]  Frier  Bacon 


501 


To  Ellinor,  may  quite  his  favourites.1 

But  all  this  while  what  say  you  to  the  dames 

That  shine  like  to  the  christall  lampes  of  heaven  ? 

Emperour.    If  but  a  third  were  added  to  these  two, 
They  did  surpasse  those  gorgeous  images  15 

That  gloried  Ida  with  rich  beauties  wealth. 

Mar.    Tis  I,  my  lords,  who  humbly  on  my  knee 
Must  yeeld  her  horisons  to  mighty  Jove 
For  lifting  up  his  handmaide  to  this  state ; 

Brought  from  her  homely  cottage  to  the  court,  20 

And  grasde  with  kings,  princes,  and  emperours, 
To  whom  (next  to  the  noble  Lincolne  earle) 
I  vow  obedience,  and  such  humble  love 
As  may  a  handmaid  to  such  mighty  men. 

P.  Elm.    Thou  martiall  man  that  wears  the  Almaine  crown,      25 
And  you  the  western  potentates  of  might, 
The  Albian  princesse,  English  Edwards  wife, 
Proud  that  the  lovely  star  of  Fresingfield, 
Fair  Margret,  Countess  to  the  Lincoln  earle, 

Attends  on  Ellinour, — gramercies,  lord,  for  her, —  30 

Tis  I  give  thankes  for  Margret,  to  you  all, 
And  rest  for  her  due  bounden  to  your  selves. 

Henrie.    Seeing  the  marriage  is  solemnized,2 
Lets  march  in  triumph  to  the  royall  feast.  — 
But  why  stands  Frier  Bacon  here  so  mute  ?  35 

Bacon.    Repentant  for  the  follies  of  my  youth, 
That  magicks  secret  mysteries  misled, 
And  joyfull  that  this  royall  marriage 
Portends  such  blisse  unto  this  matchless  realme. 

Hen.    Why,  Bacon,  what  strange  event  shall  happen  to  this  land  ? 
Or  what  shall  grow  from  Edward  and  his  queene  ?  41 

Bacon.    I  find  by  deep  praescience  3  of  mine  art, 
Which  once  I  tcmpred  in  my  secret  cell, 
That  here  where  Brute  did  build  his  Troynovant, 
From  forth  the  royall  garden  of  a  king  45 

1  Dy.,  (J.  qy.   'favourers.'  2  solemnized. 

3  The  sequel  is  the  compliment  to  yueen  Elizabeth. 


502  Frier  Bacon  [sc.  xvi] 

Shall  flourish  out  so  rich  and  fair  a  bud, 

Whose  brightnesse  shall  deface  proud  Phoebus'  flowre, 

And  over-shadow  Albion  with  her  leaves. 

Till  then  Mars  shall  be  master  of  the  field, 

But  then  the  stormy  threats  of  war  shall  cease  :  50 

The  horse  shall  stamp  as  carelesse  of  the  pike, 

Drums  shall  be  turn'd  to  timbrels  of  delight ; 

With  wealthy  favours  plenty  shall  enrich 

The  strond  that  gladded  wandring  Brute  to  see, 

And  peace  from  heaven  shall  harbour  in  these  leaves  55 

That  gorgeous  beautifies  this  matchlesse  flower : 

Apollos  helletropian  l  then  shall  stoope, 

And  Venus  hyacinth  shall  vaile2  her  top; 

Juno  shall  shut  her  gilliflowers  up, 

And  Pallas  bay  shall  bash  her  brightest  greene ;  60 

Ceres  carnation,  in  consort  with  those, 

Shall  stoope  and  wonder  at  Dianas  rose. 

Henrie.    This  prophecie  is  mysticall.  — 
But,  glorious  commanders3  of  Europas  love, 

That  make  faire  England  like  that  wealthy  ile  65 

Circled  with  Gihen  and  swift4  Euphrates, 
In  royallizing  Henries  Albion 
With  presence  of  your  princely  mightinesse, — 
Lets  5  march  :   the  tables  all  are  spred, 

And  viandes,  such  as  Englands  wealth  affords,  70 

Are  ready  set  to  furnish  out  the  bords. 
You  shall  have  welcome,  mighty  potentates  : 
It  rests  to  furnish  up  this  royall  feast, 
Only  vour  hearts  be  frolicke ;    for  the  time 

Craves  that  we  taste  of  naught  but  jouissance.  75 

Thus  glories  England  over  all  the  west.  \_Exeunt'omnes.~\ 

Omne  tulit  punctum  qui  miscuit  utile  dulci, 

1  Q  3,  '  hellitropian  ';    Never  too  Late  '  helitropion.'       Any  kind  of  heliotrope  or  turn-sol. 

2  In  G-a-Greenc  "  vail  staff"  ;    in  0.  F.  "  vail  thy  plumes." 

3  Dy.,   some  corruption;   suggests  'comrades.'      But  x.    148  confirms  the  text.      See  also 
Appendix  D,  3  a. 

4  So  l)y.,  citing  0.  F.  11.  40-41,  "swift  Euphrates."      £)  I,   first. 
^  Appendix  C,  2  c. 


APPENDIX 

SOME   ALLEGED  IRREGULARITIES  IN  THE   VERSIFICATION  OF  FRIAR   BACON 

If  we  take  the  first  quarto  of  Friar  Bacon  as  we  find  it,  we  shall  see  that 
some  of  the  peculiarities  in  verse  structure  are  mannerisms  with  which  every 
student  of  contemporary  drama  is  familiar,  and  that  others  may  be  justified  as 
intended  for  rhythmical  and  dramatic  expressiveness.  These  considerations 
convince  me  that  it  is  best  to  leave  the  versification  —  and  consequently  most 
of  the  text  —  as  it  was  in  i  594. 

A.  Accent.  —  i .  Greene  makes  frequent  use  of  the  stress-syllable  open- 
ing. —  Sometimes  for  emphasis  as  in 

ii.  49.      Bow  to  the  force  of  his  pentageron  ;   and  in  vi.  28,  35,  45,  58. 

Sometimes  for  the  tripping  effect,  as  in  many  of  the  lines  assigned  to  Margaret, 
e.g.  iii.  10,  13,  15,  21,  30,  31  ;  and  in  lines  expressive  of  the  blithe,  or 
the  beautiful,  such  as  i.  14,  15,  56,  60,  75,  81.  Such  stress-syllable  open- 
ings are  frequently  counterbalanced  by  an  anapaestic  second  or  third  foot  ; 
occasionally  by  two  anapaests,  as  in 

vi.  58.      Lacie,  love  makes  no  exception  of  a  friend  ; 

xii.   56.      Hie  thee  to  Fresingfield  and  bring  home  the  lasse. 

2.  The  stress  syllable  is  used  also  to  open    the  verse-section   after   the 
pause,  e.g.  :  — 

i.  78.      She  turned  her  smocke  |  over  her  lilly  armes  ;    and  in  iii.  7. 

But  'over,'  'safely,'  might  be  read  with  the  hovering  accent.  So  xvi.  21 
('princes').  Methods  (i  )  and  (2)  appear  to  be  combined  in 

iii.  79.  Make  but  a  step  |  into  the  keepers  lodge;  and  in  iii.  81,  iv.  5, 
vi.  138. 

3.  The  extra  syllable  is  adroitly  used  before  the  verse-section  (the  epic 
cefsura)  as  a  compensation  for  the  stress-svllable  opening  :  — 

ii.    i  56.    Maistcr  Burd^v/  I  when  shall  we  see  you  at  Hc-nlcy  : 
xiv.  47.    (Pegg/V  |  thy  daughter,  etc.),  and  vi.   58  as  above  (Lac/V  |  love 
makes  K 

5°3 


504  Appendix 

4.    The  hovering  accent  is  evident  in  such  lines  as 

viii.   149.      I  pray  |  God  I  |  like  her  |  as  I  lov|ed  thee. 

It  emphasizes  the  reluctant  utterance.  Ignoring  this,  Dy.  and  G.  change 
text  and  rhythm  to  :  — 

'  Pray  God  |  I  like  |  her  as  |  I  lovjed  thee. 

B.  Quantity.  —  i .     A  syllable  is  broken  into  a  dissyllable,  or  prolonged 
by  way   of  emphasis,   in   such  cases  as  i.   168  (your  heart's),  ii.   18  (of  all 
A  this),  ii.  170  (A-men),  ix.  i  16  (haile,  or  haile),  vi.   17,  xii.  43  (faife), 
xiii.  38  (houfe).      In  names  like  Marg(a)ret,  Erm(e)sbie,  diaeresis  or  dialy- 
sis often  occurs.      For  Elizabethan  usage,  see  Schipper,  Neue?igl.  Metrik,  I  : 
§  53,  and  Knaut,  Metrik  R.   Greene's  (Halle,   1890). 

2.  In  vi.  4,  171,  vii.  25,  etc.,  such  words  as  devil,  spirit,  are  con- 
tracted by  synsresis  or  slurring.  In  x.  55,  xiii.  3,  xiii.  38  (while  I've; 
he'd;  thou'st),  we  find  elision  or  apocope,  as,  also,  in  xiv.  79,  vi.  162, 
xiii.  37  ('n  if  she  be;  'n  if  your  honour;  there'll  be).  In  vig'r,  ETfior, 
fri'r,  pow'r,  fi 'ry,  syncope.  In  vi.  135,  ix  129  (To^avoid  ;  no~unlesse), 
synalcepha.  Evidently  the  dramatist  has  in  mind  the  spoken  sentence,  in 
which  slurring  and  rapid  pronunciation  are  more  likely  to  occur  than  omis- 
sion of  syllables. 

C.  Lacking  Syllables.  —  i .     Compensation  for  one  syllable  is  made  by  a 
rhetorical  pause,  or  by  lengthening  or  emphasizing  the  next  syllable,  e.g., 

(rf)    In  the  first  foot,  for  an  absent  thesis  :  — 

vi.   17.        A  That  this  fai-f  courteous  countrie  swaine  ; 
vi.   i  30.      A  Made  me  thinke  the  shadows  substances  ; 

unless  we  read  with  hovering  accent,  sc.  "  Made  me  A  thinke,"  which 
would  accumulate  the  emphasis  upon  'thinke.'  Do.,  Dy.,  W.,  gratui- 
tously insert  'to'  before  'thinke.' 

vi.   1 6 1 .      A  Why  stands  frier  Bungay  so  amazed  ? 

Another  acephalous  line.  The  suppression  of  the  light  syllable  accentuates 
the  arsis  '  Why.'  For  similar  suppression  in  questions  see  i.  20,  ii.  i  56. 

xiv.  77.      A  Why,  —  then  Margret  will  be  shorne  a  nun  ? 

Accumulated  emphasis  of  surprise.  So,  in  iii.  4  :  (A  Thomas,  maids 
when  they  come),  etc.;  and  in 

xiv.  34.      A  Love   .    .    .    oh,  Love  !   — and  with  fond  Love,  farewell. 

Dy.,  G.,  W.,  "Farewell,  oh  Love"  for  first  two  feet.  But  why  should 
Margaret  repeat  a  verb  which  she  has  used  twice  already  in  this  speech  ?  As  for 


Appendix  505 

Greene,  he  was  not  writing  a  primer  of  prosody  for  school  recitations.     Margaret 
has  said  farewell  to  world,  friends,  father,  and  dainty  robes,  then  with  a  sigh  or 
sob,  for  which  Greene  allows  by  the  lacuna,  she  bids  adieu  to  the  dearest  — 
"  A  Love  ...  oh  Love."      The  pause  before  Love  heightens  the  explosion. 
A  similar  effect  is  produced  by  the  suppression  at  the  beginning  of 


xiv.  20.      A  Pride, 
or  perhaps  A  Pride 


flatterle  and  j  inconstant  thoughts 
A  flat  terie  and. 


Dy.  says  this  line  is  mutilated,  and  G.  inserts  '  vanitie '  after  '  Pride.'  But 
the  line  is  all  right.  See  also  C,  2  b,  below. 

ix.   I  7  I .      A  Gratious  as  the  morning  starre  of  heaven. 

I  prefer  this  to  Ward's  emendation  (approved  by  Wagner)  '  Gratious  as 
is,'  because  the  Q  is  less  sibilant  and,  owing  to  the  pause,  more  deliberate 
and  forcible.  Greene  may  have  written  '  As  gracious  ' ;  for  compare  Look- 
ing-Glasse,  \.  14,  'As  glorious,'  etc. 

ix.  257.      A  Persia,  downe  her  Volga  by  canows. 

The  rhetorical  emphasis  on  '  her  '  compensates  (with  the  hovering  accent)  for 
the  aposiopesis  before  '  Persia.'  Greene's  metrical  effects  don't  always  count 
upon  the  fingers,  but  they  are  often  rhythmically  delightful. 

(b)    For  a  lacking  thesis  in   the   second  foot,  a  similar  rhetorical  pause, 
sometimes  also  an  anapaestic  third  foot,  may  compensate,  as  in 

i.   II.      And  now  A  changde  to  a  melancholic  dumpe. 

The  'a'  is  in  Q  i.  Wagner's  emendation  (^Anglia,  p.  523;  1879), 
"  he's  chang'd  to  melancholy  dump,"  is  futile. 

ii.  62.      Carved  out  A  like  to  the  portall  of  the  sunne. 

Pause  for  reflection.  The  ear  is  satisfied  by  the  spondaic  first  foot  and  the 
anapaestic  third.  (With  i.  i  i  and  ii.  62  cf.  A  2  above.) 

vii.  3.      For  he   A    troopt  with  all   the  westerne  kings. 

The  rhythmical  aposiopesis  represents  a  rhetorical  pause  for  which  the 
strongly  accented  '  troopt '  and  '  all '  compensate.  Do.,  Dy.,  G.,  W.,  read 
'trooped,' — but  I  don't  think  Greene  did. 

x.  27.      Content  A  keeper  ;    send  her  unto  us. 

I  have  inserted  a  dash  for  the  pause  of  decision  after  '  content  ' :  Lambert 
accepts  the  proposition  and  acts.  No  metrical  stop-gap  is  necessary. 


506  Appendix 

Sometimes  the  arsis  is  lacking,  and  is  supplied  by  a  pause  or  gesture  :  — 
xiii.  4.    Ah,  Bungay,  A  my  Brazen-head  is  spoiled. 

A  second  'ah  '  suggests  itself,  and  Dy.  and  W.  print  it.  But  I  have  no 
doubt  Greene  intended  the  speaker  to  draw  breath  for  a  sigh  indicative  of 
despair. 

xiv.   ill.    Come,  Sussex,  ~R  let's  in  we  shall  have  more. 

The  missing  arsis  is  supplied  by  the  pause  that  succeeds  a  command.      With 
different  punctuation   we  have  '  A    Come  !  j  Sussex,  let's  in,'    which  is  as 
good.      The  editors  keep  Lacie  talking. 
(V)     In  the  third  foot,  lacking  thesis  :  — 

ix.  229.    And  give  us  cates  A  fit  for  countrey  swaines. 

If  the  emperor  did  not  pause  for  language  suitable  to  the  emergency,  it  was 
because  he  pronounced  'cates'  as  a  dissyllable.  Cf.  Marlowe's  Faustus 
(Dyce  ed.  1850,  p.  211),  "  Pardon  me  sweet,  A  I  forgot  myself." 

ix.   144.     How  now,  A  Vandermast  !   have  you  met  with  your  match? 

Pause  for  surprise.  If  the  pause  should  fall  before  '  have  '  it  would  indicate 
the  transition  to  inquiry.  In  this  and  the  next  instance  anapzestic  compensa- 
tion is  prominent. 

ix.    148.     Why  Vandermast,  A  art  thou  overcome? 

But  it  is  rhetorically  more  natural  to  read  :  '  A  Why  A  Vandermast,  art  thou 
overcome  ? ' 

(d)     In  the  fourth  foot,  lacking  thesis  :  — 

v.  62—64.  Edw.  To  whom  speakest  thou?  Bacon.  To  thee.  Edw. 
A  Who  art  thou  ? 

Pause  justified  by  change  of  speaker,  and  the  indignant  inquiry. 

2.  Two  or  more  syllables  lacking.  To  assume  that  omissions  of  this 
kind  are  due  to  carelessness  on  the  part  of  author,  scribe,  or  printer,  is  to  beg 
the  question.  It  is  more  reasonable  to  premise  the  genuineness  of  the  lines 
and  consider  whether  each  in  turn  is  not  to  be  justified  by  its  dramatic  con- 
ditions. The  following  sixteen  exhaust,  I  think,  the  more  flagrant  instances 
of  lacuna  in  this  play.  In  none  would  I  alter  the  text  of  the  first  quarto. 

(tf)    Edward's  lines  :  — 

vi.  47.     Gogs  wounds  A  Bacon  here  comes  Lacie  A~. 

Abrupt  outcry,  in  which  the  less  and  the  more  forcible  exclamatory  pauses 
are  metrically  provided  for  by  the  lacking  thesis  and  arsis  respectively.  The, 


Appendix  507 

lacking  thesis  allows  also  for  the  transition  from  surprise  to  affirmation.  This 
line  is  paralleled  by 

vi.   127.    Gogs  wounds  A  Bacon  they  kisse  !     He  stab  them  A. 

The  former  pause  for  breathless  amazement  ;  the  latter  for  decision  and  a 
gesture.  He  raises  his  hand  to  deal  the  blow. 

vi.   146.     Helpe,  Bacon  A    !  A  stop  the  marriage  now  ! 

Dyce,  "some  word  or  words  wanting."  Others  would  supply  "Helpe! 
and  "  and  so  reduce  the  line  to  mediocrity.  The  omission  is  intentional. 
The  exclamatory  pause  after  '  Bacon  '  is  metrically  equivalent  to  an  accented 
syllable.  The  pause  before  'stop'  is  for  Edward's  quandary  —  as  if  he 
should  for  a  moment  cast  about  for  an  appropriate  request.  The  line  might 
of  course  be  interpreted  so  as  to  require  one  lacking  thesis  before  '  Helpe '  and 
one  before  '  Bacon.' 

vi.   1 08.     A  How  familiar  they  be,  Bacon,  A  7\. 

First  pause,  the  gasp  before  an  interrogatory  exclamation.  Second  pause 
for  Bacon's  'Sit  still,'  which  as  a  convertible  toot  is  the  last  of  this  line  and 
the  first  of  the  next. 

vi.  176.  The  foot  pause  before  '  Flees  '  may  allow  for  a  burst  of  laughter. 
Wagner  suggests  '  rwv  fear,'  which  no  compatriot  of  Greene,  if  he  read  the 
line  aloud,  can  tolerate.  Until  English  is  a  dead  language  it  will  hardly  be 
judicious  to  encourage  foreign  emendations  of  our  masterpieces. 

(b)    Margaret's  lines. 

iii.  46.  Suppression  of  the  first  two  feet  in  rapid  dialogue.  The  words 
'  sent  this  rich  purse  '  might  have  been  set  down  before  '  To  me  ? '  but  with 
what  advantage  save  to  fill  the  pentameter  ?  For  the  clause  has  occurred 
once  and  the  verb  twice  already  in  the  last  six  lines.  The  suppression 
intensifies  the  dialogue,  and  accentuates  the  mingled  surprise  and  impatience 
of  the  speaker. 

viii.  132.  A  rhetorical  pause  occupies  the  first  foot  or  the  last.  Like  the 
preceding  instance  in  so  far  as  the  aposiopesis  indicates  question  and  surprise. 
Dy.,  G.,  insert  'indeed'  before  'mean'  :  easy  but  needless. 

x.  i  56.  Dy.  queries  'shall  be'  after  'wealth.'  But  the  words  'shall 
be  '  are  implied  from  the  preceding  line,  and  so  intentionally  omitted.  An 
additional  rhetorical  emphasis  falls  upon  trash:  — 

Wealth,  7^  /\  trash  ;   love,  hate  ;  pleasure,  dispaire. 

xiv.  20.  Impassioned  soliloquy  within  an  address,  like  x.  I  $8.  The 
light  syllables  of  the  first  and  second  feet  arc  suppressed  to  increase  the  effect 
of  the  accented  syllables  :  f\  Pride  /\  flatterie  and  — . 


508  Appendix 

(V)     Lines  of  other  characters. 

ii.  157.  The  infuriate  Burden  occupies  the  first  foot  with  a  stifled 
'  Henly  !  '  or  something  unreverend. 

ix.  I  20.  An  interrogatory  pause  for  the  first  foot  or  an  exclamatory  for 
the  last ;  unless  we  combine  the  lines  thus  :  — 

Van.    What  art  thou  that  questions!  thus  ?      Bacon.     Men  call  me  Bacon, 
ix.   162.          Why,  A  Bacon,  whither  dost  thou  send  him. 

As  in  vi.  161,  and  ix.  148,  the  lacunaj  correspond  with  moments  of 
breathless  surprise  ;  and  emphasis  is  accumulated  upon  the  syllables  respec- 
tively succeeding.  If  we  scan  without  pauses,  the  lacunae  will  occupy  the 
fifth  foot  which  might  naturally  be  reserved  for  Bacon's  echo-question  [send 
him?].  'Whither,'  probably  contracted  'whe'r. ' 

x.  i  50.    What  answere  shall  I  returne  to  my  lord  ?  ^_Marg.  Returne  ?] 

Another  echo-foot.  Unless  we  pronounce  '  returne '  for  which  there  is 
authority,  as  in  iv.  56,  '  progress,'  ix.  242,  '  exceed.'  See  Schipper, 
Neuengl.  Metr.,  p.  153. 

xiii.  72.    My  father  slaine  !  A  7\  Serlby,  ward  that. 

The  thesis  of  the  third  foot  allows  for  the  recoil  of  horror  ;  the  arsis  for 
the  transition  to  revenge  —  the  drawing  of  the  rapier. 

xiv.  99.  Echo  of  the  previous  idea,  unuttered  because  dramatically  under- 
stood ;  ['  As  glad~\  as  if,'  etc.  Dy.  suggests  insertion  '  As  glad  as  if,'  and 

A      A 
G.  adopts.      No. 

xvi.  69.     Let's  march  :  A  Y  the  tables  all  are  spread. 

The  silent  foot  allows  for  the  rhetorical  pause  between  command  and 
affirmation.  Cf.  vi.  146.  Dy.'s  'Let  us  march  hence,''  and  G.'s  'Let  us 
march  on,"1  will  do  well  enough  if  we  must  keep  somebody  talking  all  the 
time. 

D.  Additional  Syllables.  —  Like  the  foregoing  apparently  deficient  lines 
it  will  be  found  that,  properly  read,  most  of  the  so-called  hypermetric  lines 
conform  to  the  pentameter.  The  dozen  or  so  that  do  not  are  warranted 
by  historic,  if  not  by  rhetorical,  conditions.  At  any  rate  they  are  much 
more  likely  to  be  the  lines  that  Greene  wrote  than  are  the  '  procrustitutes ' 
which  we  might  suggest. 

i.    Readers   should   allow  for  feminine  endings,  as 

ix.    ill.     To  them  of  Sien,  Florence  and  Belogna  ; 
or  Bo  Ionia,  gliding  ending. 


Appendix  509 

ii.   i  56.    A  Maister  Burden  when  shall  we  see  you  at  Henly  ? 

Of  feminine  endings  Knaut  counts  ten,  and  about  four  gliding. 

2.  They  should  allow  also  for  the  anapaest  in  itself  (as  ix.  231)  or  by  way 
of  compensation  for  a  missing  syllable  in  an  adjoining  foot.      Two  such  give 
the  appearance  of  a  senarius.     Occasionally,  as  in  vi.  163  ('  gay  straightway,' 
or  'way  from  Fres — '),  the  foot  is  awkward.     Even  so,  I  do  not  think  that 
the  emendation  '  straight'  (Dy.,  W.)  for  this  '  straightway  '  is  necessary. 

3.  Senarii.    (V)    The    following   are    such    in    appearance  only.       They 
should  be  read  as  pentameters  in  which  the  anapaest,  slurring,  or  elision,  is 
employed.      In 

i.   I  56.    Send  letters  speed'ly  |  to  Oxford  of  the  newes, 
we  have  the  epic  csesura.      So  also  vi.  94,  ca-sura  after  '  Beckles '  ;  and  so 

.x.  77.    Give  me   .    .    .   but  ten  days'  respite  |  and  lie  reply, 
and       xvi.  30.    Attends  on  El'nor  |  gramercies,  lord,  for  her. 

In  ix.    191.     /\  Martiall   Plantagenet  |  Henries  highminded  sonne, 
we  have  the  lyric  caesura  ;   so  also  in 

xiii.  67.    Then  this  for  her  |  Ah,  well  thrust.      But  marke,  the  ward. 
Cf.  Schipper  Neuengl.  Metr.,  p.  25/7. 

In  iii.  51.    For  we've  little  leisure  to  debate  of  that, 

vi.   131  —  132.     'Twere  a  long  poinard,  my  lord,  to  reach  betweene 

f\  Oxford  and  Fresingfield,  but  sit  still  and  see  more, 
vi.   162.    I've  strook  him  dum  my  lord  |  'n  if  your  honor  please, 
ix.  31.    Of  elemental  essence,  terra's  but  thought, 
ix.  45.    And  of  the  vig'r  of  the  geomantic  fiends, 
xiv.  79.    We  cannot  stay  my  lord  |  'n  if  she  be  so  strict, — 

anapzstic  readings  with  natural  apocope  or  syncope  preserve  the  pentameter. 
Dy's  'you'  for  'your  honor'  in  vi.  162,  and  omission  of  'my  lord'  in 
xiv.  79,  are  therefore  unnecessary. 

xvi.  64  appears  to  have  six  feet  ;  but  if  it  is  taken  in  sequence  with  the 
preceding  line  the  effect  is  of  two  five-foot  lines. 

(^)  The  following  senarii  of  Q  I  are  real,  and  should  be  preserved,  though 
Dyce  and  Ward  generally  place  the  first  foot  in  a  line  by  itself.  The  Mar- 
lowan  reform  had  not  yet  completed  the  rout  of  the  Alexandrine,  —  and 
even  if  it  had  Greene  would  have  remained  unrouted.  He  uses  the  Alexan- 
drine, sometimes  unconsciously,  sometimes  for  variety.  Perhaps  a  few  of 
these  senarii,  i.  10,  83  ;  ii.  112,  148  ;  iii.  26  ;  vi.  77  ;  ix.  i  85  ;  x.  149  ; 
xi.  7,  92  ;  xii.  1 8  ;  xiv.  78  ;  xvi.  40,  are  accidental,  but  most  of  them  are 


5 1  o  Appendix 

intended  to  be  impressive,  and  the  additional  foot  generally  indicates  the 
person  most  concerned. 

E.   Other  Debated  Lines. 

iv.  ii.  Ward  retains  the  senarius.  Dyce  thinks  '  corrupted,'  and  queries, 
'As  Agenor's  damsel  did,'  for  'through  the  deep'  is  almost  a  repetition 
of  '  through  the  seas.'  — Wagner  :  'like  Europa  through  the  deep.'  -—Per- 
haps (says  Palgrave  ace.  to  Ward)  the  dramatist  pronounced  the  name  Agenor. 
We  might  then  scan  :  — 

And  venture  as  Agenor''s  damsel  through  the  deep. 

But  it  is  quite  as  likely  that  Greene  intended,  or  let  slip,  a  senarius. 
ix.   i  12.    The  quartos  are  right,  and  we  should  scan  thus  :  — 

Reimes,  Lovain,  and  fai-r  Rotherdam. 

For  'fayer,'  etc.,  see  B  I,  above.  By  altering  to  '  Rheims,'  Do.,  Dy., 
G.,  and  W.  miss  the  metre.  G.,  for  instance,  reads  '  Rheims  [and]'  ;  Elze 
(Notes  on  Elizab.  Dramatists,  Halle,  1886,  cxcix)  :  '  Of  Rheims,  ofLouvain 
and  fair  Rotterdam'  ;  Knaut  :  'Rheims,  Louvain,  Paris  and.'  But  if  we 
preserve  the  spelling  of  the  quartos  the  scansion  is  simple. 

A  Few  Conclusions.  — -  Greene  was  sensitive  to  dramatic  niceties  of  utter- 
ance. Hence  most  of  the  metrical  idiosyncrasies  which  are  improperly 
called  irregularities.  An  induction  from  the  instances  cited  under  C  above  shows 
that  the  following  were  the  conditions  of  utterance  to  which  he  accorded  special 
elocutionary  recognition  :  the  pause  before  a  question  or  a  response  and  the 
increase  of  emphasis  upon  the  syllable  succeeding  the  silence  ;  the  pause  for 
reflection,  and  the  pause  before  deliberate  utterance  ;  decision  attending  a  com- 
mand ;  the  pause  of  speechless  anger  ;  the  stoppage  due  to  sighing,  sobbing, 
horror,  or  any  recoil  of  emotion  ;  the  period  of,  or  after,  a  gesture,  an  inartic- 
ulate cry,  a  burst  of  laughter,  an  exclamatory  remark  ;  the  pause  during  the 
suppression  of  the  self-explanatory.  The  examination  of  his  practice  in 
Friar  Bacon  shows  that  in  order  to  represent  these  conditions  in  dramatic- 
blank  verse  Greene  availed  himself  of  silent  beats  with  a  uniformity  that  might 
be  called  system,  were  it  the  outcome  of  anything  less  spontaneous  than  the 
rhetorical  instinct  and  the  feeling  for  rhythm.  Subordinating  these  to  his 
knowledge  of  stage  '  business,'  Greene  seems,  then,  to  have  developed  a  metrical 
use  of  the  lacuna  somewhat  like  this:  — 

Before  an  important  affirmation,  the  name  of  one  addressed  in  exclamation, 
an  inquiry,  an  imperative  request,  a  command; 

At  the  transition  from  one  form  of  utterance  to  another,  the  suppression  of 
word  or  words  understood,  the  gulp  of  rage,  the  burst  of  laughter  ; 


Appendix  5 1 1 

After  an  outcry. 

These  conclusions  are  confirmed  by  an  examination  of  the  other  plays  in 
which  the  text  is  fairly  authentic.  The  dramatist  naturally  and,  in  that  sense, 
intentionally  suited  his  '  lines  '  to  the  histrionic  emergency  :  an  achievement 
not  difficult  for  one  of  his  rhetorical  quality,  who  was  also  familiar  with  the 
practice  of  the  stage.  On  similar  grounds  and  with  a  regard  likewise  for  the 
conditions  of  verse  at  the  time,  his  senarii  are  to  be  retained  and  defended. 

Most  of  the  attempts  to  reduce  his  dramatic  blank  verse  to  anything  like 
measured  uniformity  are,  therefore,  in  my  opinion  academic  and  superfluous. 
They  are  indeed  worse,  for  not  only  do  they  ignore  the  personal  equation, 
they  tend  to  pervert  the  data  from  which  the  history  of  English  metres  must 
be  derived.  There  may,  of  course,  be  lines,  like  vi.  17  and  ix.  47  of  this 
play,  where  dramatist  or  intermediary  has  unwittingly  omitted  something,  or 
actor  wantonly  added,  but  they  are  few;  and  unless  the  sense  calls  out  for 
orthopaedic  assistance,  no  literary,  historical,  or  philological  interest  is  sub- 
served by  doctoring  the  text. 


Henry   Porter 


THE    PLEASANT    HISTORY    OF 
THE    TWO   ANGRY    WOMEN    OF   ABINGTON 


Edited  with  Critical  Essay  and 
Notes  by  Charles  Mills  Gay  ley, 
LL.D.,  Professor  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  California. 


i ,  r 


CRITICAL   ESSAY 

The  Facts  of  Porter's  Life.  —  The  Two  Angry  Women  of  Abington  is 
the  only  extant  production  of  Henry  Porter.  In  1841  Mr.  Collier,  who  was 
then  editing  Henslowe's  Diary,  supplied  Mr.  Dyce  with  what  purported  to 
be  all  the  materials  in  that  journal  relative  to  this  dramatist  ;  and  these,  with 
the  exception  of  one  of  August  23,  1597,  connecting  him  with  Nashe,  which 
has  been  shown  to  be  a  forgery,  are  copied  from  Dyce's  Percy  Society  edition 
of  the  Two  Angrie  Women  by  Mr.  H.  Ellis  for  the  preface  to  the  Mermaid 
edition  of  the  play.  The  statement  is  there  made  that  "  the  foregoing  extracts 
—  extending  over  the  brief  period  of  a  single  year  .  .  .  contain  all  the  definite 
information  which  has  reached  us  concerning  Henry  Porter."  An  examina- 
tion of  Collier's  Henslowe's  Diary  will  show,  however,  that  Mr.  Ellis  omits 
about  a  dozen  entries  l  affecting  our  poet  which,  though  inaccessible  to  Dyce 
in  1841,  have  been  available  since  1845.  A  complete  list  of  such  notices 
in  their  chronological  order  has  not  been  set  before  the  public.  I,  therefore, 
subjoin  the  following,  inserting  an  additional  memorandum  (No.  8)  of  January 
17,  1598-9,  from  another  source,  and  eliminating  the  suspicious  Henslowe 
entries  which  Mr.  George  F.  Warner 2  has  branded  as  Collier  forgeries. 
The  references  are  to  the  first  volume  of  the  Diary. 

1.  P.  77.        Dd  unto  Mr  Porter,  the  16  of  desembr  1596 v1' 

2.  P.  77.        Lent  unto  Mr  Porter,  the  7  of  march  1597 iiij'' 

3.  P.  124.      Lent  unto  the  Company,  the  30  of  maye  1598,  to  bye  a  boocke  called  love  -\ 

prevented,  the  some  of  fower  powndes,  dd  to  THOMAS  DOWTON.  >  iiij'' 

Mr  Porter8-' 

4.  P.  126.      Lent  unto  Cheattell,  the  26  of  June   1598,  in  earnest  of  a  boocke  called  "j 

the  2  pte  of  blacke  Battman   of  the  north  ;   and  Mr  Harey  Porter  hath  I      s 
geven  me  his  worde  for  the  performance   of  the  same,  and  allso  for  my  j 
money  J 

5.  P.  131.     Lent  unto  the  company,  the   18  of  Aguste  1598,  to  bye  a  Boocke  called' 

hoote  anger  sone  cowld    of  Mr   Porter,    Mr  cheattell,   and   bengemen  ^  vj" 
Johnson,  in  fulle  payment,  the  some  of 


edl 

en  >  vj" 


1  Nos.  i,  2,  4,  7,  9,  10,  ii,  14,  15,  16,  17,  19,  20,  22. 

2  Catalogue  of  the  M6'5.    and  Muniments  of  Al!e\n' 'j  College  of  God^i  Gift  at  Duhvicb, 
Lond.  :    1881,  pp.  i57"-i62.      See  also  H.  B.  Wheatley,  John  Payne  Collier  ;    Lond.  :    1884, 
p.  61. 

8  Collier  says  this  name  was  added  "in  a  different  hand  to  indicate  "  the  author. 

5'5 


516 


Henry    Porter 


Lent  unto  thomas  Dowton,  the  22  of  desembr  1598,  to  bye  a  boocke  "I 

engton  / 


6.  P.  141. 

of  harey  Poorter  called  the  2  pte  of  the  2  angrey  wemen  of  aber 

7.  P.   144.      Lent  unto  harey  Porter,  the  17  of  Janewary,  1598  [-9]  at  the  request  "1 

of  Richard  Alleyn  and  Wm  Birde  the  some  of j    " 

8.  An  acknowledgment  of  the  transaction    (No.  7)  in   the   Bodleian.      See  note   prefixed  to 

Malone's  copy  (Malone,  184):  as  follows, 

"An  acknowledgement  of  a  debt  of  20  s.  owing  to  Philip  Henslowe,  dated  Jan.  1 7th, 
I  598  [-9],  and  bearing  the  autograph  signature  of  Henry  Porter,  formerly  lying  loose  in  this 
volume  is  now  to  be  found  in  MS.  Eng.  Hist.  C.  4,  fol.  15.  (Signed)  W.  H.  A.,  June  8,  1885." 

9.  P.   143.      Lent  unto  Thomas   Dowton,  the   31    of  Janewary  J598[-9],  to  bye' 

tafetie  for  ij  womones  gownes,  for  the  ij  angrey  wemen  of  abengton, 
the  some  of 

10.  P.  145.      Lent  unto  Thomas  Downton,  the   12  of  febreary  I5g8[— 9],  to  paye 

Mr  Poorter,  in  fulle  payment  for  his  boocke  called  the  2  pte  of  the  ^  ij' 
angry  wemen  of  abington,  the  some  of. 

11.  P.  145.      Lent  unto  Thomas  Downton,  the   12  of  febreary  I598[~9],  to  bye' 

divers  thinges  for  the  playe  called  the  a  pte  of  the  angrey  wemen  of 
abington 

11.     P.   146.      Lent  unto  harey  porter,  at  the  Requeste  of  the  company,  in  earneste  of 
his  boocke   called   ij    mery   wemen    of  abenton   the    sume    of  forty 
shellings  ;  and  for  the  Resayte  of  that  money  he  gave  me  his  fayth- 
full  promysse  that   I   shold   have  all  the  boockes  which  he   writte, 
ether  him    selfe  or  with   any  other,  which  some  was  dd   the   28   of 

febreary,   1598 [-9].      I  saye 

THOMAS  DOWNTON,   ROBERT  SnAWE1 

13.  P.   146.      Lent  unto  Harey  Cheattell,  the  4  of  marche  I598[— 9],  in  earneste  of1 

his  boocke,  which  harey  Porter  and   lie  is  a  writinge,  the  some  of, 
called  the  Spencers 

14.  P.   146.      Lent  unto  Robart  Shawe,  the   22   of  marche  I598[— 9],  to  paye  unto 

Mr  porter,    in    full    paymente  of  his   playe  called   the   Spensers   the 
some  of 

15.  P.   147.      Lent  unto  Harey  Porter,  at  the  apoyntment  of  Thomas  Downton,  the  ) 

7  of  aprell  1599,  the  some  of ( 

1 6.  P.   151.       [A  note  for  the  same  in  Porter's  handwriting]  — Borrowed   of  phillip 

Henchlowe,  xxs,  the  vijth  of  Aprill,  anno.  dom.   1599.      (Signed) 

HENRY  PORTER 

17.  P.   148.      Lent   unto  Thomas   Downton,    the   9   of  Aprell  1599,    to   bye  dyvers" 

thinges,  as  4  clothe  clockes,  and  macke  up  a  womones  gowne,  the 
some  of —  For  the  Spencers 
Lent  Harey  Porter,  the  1 1  of  aprill  1 1599  the  some  of ijs  vjc 


P.  94.2 
P.   148. 


20.      P.    148. 


Lent  unto  Thomas  Downton,  the  14  of  Aprell  I  599,  to  macke  divers  ) 
thinges  for  the  playe  of  the  Spencers,  the  some  of ) 

Delyvered  unto  Thomas  Downton  boye,  Thomas  parsones,  to  bye  divers'] 
thinges   for  the  playe  of  the   Spencers,  the   16  of  aprell    1599,  th 
some  of3    . 


1  Witnesses. 

2  Nos.    18,    21,  23, 


24  are  consecutive  on  p.  94,  and   in    Henslowe's  writing,  but  with 


Porter's  signature  after  24. 

8  After  this  follows  an  item,  p.    149,  to  the  effect   that   the  "boocke 
helped  Chettle  to  pay  off  "  xs  of  a  debt  with  the  comp.mye. " 


of  tl 


ic  spencers 


had 


Henry    Porter  517 

21.  P.  94.        Lent  Harey  Porter,  the  16  of  aprell,   1599,  the  some  of     ....      xijd 

22.  P.  261.      Harey  Porter  tockc  a   somsete  of  me,  Phillipe   Henslowe,  the  1 6  of 

Aprell  1599,  upon  this  condition,  that  yf  I  would  geve  him  xij  at 
that  instant,  for  that  xij"  he  bound  hime  seallfe  unto  me  in  x''  of 
corant  Inglishe  mony,  for  this  cawsc  to  pave  unto  me  the  next  daye 
folowinge  all  the  money  which  he  oweth  unto  me,  or  els  to  ferfette 
for  that  xijd  tenn  powndes  ;  which  deate  wase  unto  me  xxvs,  which 
he  hath  not  payd  acordinge  to  his  bonde,  and  so  hath  forfettcd  unto 
me  :  wittnes  to  this  a  sumsette, 

JOHN   HASLETT,   Va[ul]ter 
MR  K.YNGMAN,  the  Elder. 

[This  entry  which  seems  to  refer  to  No.  21,  would  naturally  be  made  on  the  i8th  of  April, 
1599,  but  in  the  Diary  it  occurs  at  the  end  of  a  confused  sequence  running  March  25,  1598, 
November  16,  1599,  August  9,  1598,  September  18,  1602,  September  19,  1602.  Between 
it  and  the  next  entry,  undated  but  probably  of  February,  1601—2,  leaves  are  missing  or  mutilated. 
According  to  Dyce,  whose  information  came  from  Collier,  the  entry  on  p.  94  "  is  struck 
through,  the  money  having  been  repaid."  But  Collier  does  not  record  the  payment  of  the  xijd 
in  his  edition  of  the  Di,iry ;  nor,  according  to  p.  261,  was  Porter  released  from  the  "deate  of 
xxvs  ' '  or  the  "  forfette  of  xli. "] 

23.  P.  94.        Lent  Harey  Porter,  the  5  of  may  1599  the  some  of ijs  6^ 

24.  P.  94.        Lent  Harey  Porter,  the  15  of  maye  1599,  the  some  of        ....      ijs  6^ 

(Signed)  HENRY  PORTER 

25.  P.  94.        Be  it  knowne  unto  all  men,  that  I,  Henry  Porter,  do  owe  unto  Phillip 

Henchlowe  the  some  of  xs,  of  lawfull  money  of  England,  wch  I  did 
borrowe  of  hym  the  26  of  maye,  a°  dom.  1599. 

HENRY  PORTER! 

Other  Early  Notices.  —  Meres,  in  the  Palladis  Tamia,  1598,  names 
our  dramatist  as  one  of  the  best  for  comedy  among  us,  and  places  him  in 
good  company  :  Lyly,  Lodge,  Gascoigne,  Greene,  Shakespeare,  Nashe, 
Thomas  Heywood,  Munday,  Chapman,  Wilson,  Hathaway,  and  Chettle. 
It  is  perhaps  worthy  of  remark  that,  beginning  with  Nashe,  all  these  play- 
wrights were  at  the  time  Porter's  associates  in  the  employ  of  Henslowe  and  the 
Admiral's  company,  and  that  in  this  list  our  poet  rubs  shoulders  with  Chap- 
man and  Wilson.  Much  less  flattering  are  the  references  in  Richard  West's 
Court  of  Conscience  or  Dick  Whipper*  s  Sessions,  1607,-  to  "ruffianly  Dick 
Coomes"  (Poem  to  Propbane  Swearers}  and  "  Nimble-tongued  Nicholas 
as  the  Proverbe  saith  "  (Address  to  Lien],  which  are  undoubtedly  allusions 
to  our  play 3  :  for  although  Porter's  Nicholas  is  not  a  liar,  his  Coomes  is, 
in  the  extreme,  ruffianly  and  profane.  The  context  of  The  Court  of  Con- 
science would  indicate,  however,  that  West  was  availing  himself,  to  some 
extent,  of  nicknames  proverbial  among  the  vulgar,  such  as  Suckblood,  Tom 

1  The  whole  of  this  acknowledgment  is  in  Porter's  handwriting. 

2  British  Museum,  C.   39,  b.  21.         »  Hebcr  (Bibl.  Heber),  Pt.  IV.,  No.  2872,  in  B.  M. 


5 1 8  Henry   Porter 

Taylor,  Money  Monger,  and  Nicholas  Newfangle.  That  Porter's  play  was 
still  in  circulation  as  late  as  1661  is  shown  by  its  inclusion  in  Kirkman's 
Catalogue  of  that  date. 

Conjectural  Identity.  —  Malone,  Collier,  and  Dyce  give  no  clue  ;  in  fact 
they  do  not  exhaust  the  materials  in  Henslowe.  Langbaine  mentions  only 
the  printed  play.  Hunter,  in  his  Chorus  Saturn  Anglicanorum1  says  "it 
can  hardly  be  doubted  that  this  is  the  same  Henry  Porter  of  Christ  Church 
who  was  made  Bachelor  of  Music  in  July,  1600  (Alumn.  OXOH.  III.  1 182). 
Wood  says  that  he  had  seen  some  of  his  compositions,  but  thinks  none  were 
extant  when  he  wrote.  This  Henry  Porter  was  father  of  Walter  Porter, 
Master  of  the  Choristers  at  Westminster,  who  had  friends  in  Sir  Edward 
Spencer  and  Edward  Laurence.  He  was  related  to  Dr.  John  Wilson." 
Foster  in  the  Alumni  Oxonicnses,  tells  us,  in  addition,  that  Walter  became 
gentleman  of  the  Chapel  Royal  of  Charles  I.  This  information  is  all  traceable 
to  Wood's  Fasti,2  but  Wood  does  not  attempt  to  identify  Henry  Porter 
the  dramatist  with  Henry  Porter  the  musical  composer.  Of  the  latter  we 
learn,  from  the  Register  of  the  University  of  Oxford,*  that  he  had  studied 
music  for  twelve  years  and  had  "composed"  before  he  took  his  degree, 
July  4,  i  600.  There  is  no  record  of  a  degree  in  arts,  nor  of  matriculation, 
at  Christ  Church  ;  this  musical  activity  would  seem,  however,  to  have 
occupied  the  career  of  the  future  bachelor  of  music  from  a  date  eight  years 
before  Porter  the  dramatist  appeared  in  Henslowe' s  employ  to  a  date  after 
our  poet  had  borrowed  his  last  half-crown  from  that  employer.  "The 
statutable  conditions  for  the  degree  of  Mus.  Bac."  at  that  time,  say  Boase 
and  Clark,4  "  were  that  the  candidate  should  have  been  seven  years  in  re 
musica,  and  that  he  should  compose  and  cause  to  be  sung  in  the  university 
a  cr.nticum  quinque  partium,  giving  three  days'  notice  of  the  performance  of 
this  exercise."  That  a  student  like  Porter  of  Christ  Church,  who  had 
proceeded  leisurely  through  his  course  in  music,  taking  twelve  years  instead 
of  the  seven  prescribed,  and  who,  meanwhile,  was  composing  canticles  on 
elevated  and,  probably,  sacred  themes,  should  be  a  man  of  maturity  and 
acknowledged  worth  is  only  natural  to  suppose.  And  such  was  the  esteem 
in  which  Porter  of  Christ  Church  was  held  by  an  Oxford  undergradu- 
ate of  that  day,  who  addresses  him  in  the  following  verses,  published  in 
I599:5  — 


1  British  Museum  :   Add.  MS.,  24487-92,  Vol.  II.  302.  *  Fasti,  I.  284. 

8  Boase  and  Clark,  Vol.  II.,  Pt.   i,  p.   147.  4  As  above,  p.  145. 

5  Douce,  in  a  note  in  the  unique  copy  in  the  Bodleian,  says  that  according  to  the  date  of 
the  print  by  Cecill,  Weever  was  twenty-three  in  1599.  The  epigram  in  which  Weever  says 
that  he  is  not  yet  twenty  may  therefore  have  been  written  as  early  as  1596. 


Henry    Porter  5 1 9 

"AD    HENRICUM    PORTER 

Porter  I  durst  not  mell  with  sacred  writ, 

Nor  woe  the  mistris  fore  I  win  the  maide  ; 

For  my  yong  yeres  are  taskt ;   its  yet  unfitte, 

For  youth  as  eld  is  never  halfe  so  staid. 

Thy  selfe  which  hath  the  summe  of  Art  and  Wit 

Thus  much  I  know  unto  me  would  have  said  ; 
Thy  silver  bell  could  not  so  sweetly  sing 
If  that  too  soone  thou  hadst  begun  her  ring." 

The  Porter  thus  apostrophized  by  John  Weever  has  set  sacred  writ  to  music, 
but  only  after  careful  discipline  leading  to  the  musical  art ;  and  his  wisdom 
has  been  proved  by  the  result  :  "  Thy  silver  bell  "  of  music,  says  his  admirer, 
"could  not  so  sweetly  sing,  If  that  too  soon  thou  hadst  begun  her  ring." 
Mr.  Havelock  Ellis,1  to  whom  these  verses  were  communicated  by  Mr. 
Bullen,  understands  them  to  refer  to  Porter  the  dramatist,  and  concludes 
therefrom,  that  he  was  "at  the  period  of  his  dramatic  activity  a  man  of 
mature  age." 

But  there  is  nothing  in  Weever' s  verses  applicable  to  the  dramatist  as  we 
know  that  personage  :  his  extant  play  is  anything  but  sacred,  it  presents  no 
particular  evidence  of  mature  authorship,  betrays  no  interest  in  musical  affairs, 
yields  no  bell-tones  of  style  or  verse.  While  Weever  was  writing  his 
Epigrams,  1596  to  1599,  the  dramatist  was  pursuing  anything  but  a  staid 
and  silvern  course  at  the  Rose  Theatre  on  the  Bankside.  The  slowly  matured 
composer  of  canticles,  on  the  other  hand,  was  completing  a  leisurely  discipline 
at  Christ  Church,  and  to  such  a  student  Weever' s  eulogy  admirably  applies. - 
In  all  probability  the  composer  stuck  to  his  metier.  He  was  of  a  musical 
family  :  his  son  obtained  recognition  from  Court  for  his  musical  attainments  ; 
and  a  kinsman,  Dr.  John  Wilson,  "  a  very  eminent  musician  of  whom  there 
is  a  long  notice  in  Wood,"  was  professor  of  music  at  Oxford  in  i656.3 

The  familiarity  with  Oxford  and  its  surroundings  displayed  in  the  drama 
of  the  two  angry  women  who  meet  in  the  neighboring  village  of  Abington  is, 
however,  indicative  of  Oxonian  authorship,  and  we  are  again  driven  to  the 
registers  of  the  university  in  search  of  some  available  Henry  Porter.  There 
is,  I  find,  but  one  capable,  in  point  of  chronology,  of  fulfilling  the  conditions  : 

"Matriculations:     19  June,   1589,   Brazenose,   Porter,   Henry; 
Lond.,gen.  f.  16."  4 

1  Mermaid  Series,  Porter,  p.  90. 

2  With  this  opinion  I  find  that  Mr.  Bayne  agrees,  D.  N.  B.  Art.,  Porter. 
8  Hunter,  II,  300,  and  Hist.  Reg.   Uni-v.  Oxford,   1888. 

4  Boase  and  Clark,  Vol.  II.,  Pt.  z,  p.   170. 


520  Henry    Porter 

Concerning  the  academic  career  of  this  Henry  Porter  there  is  no  informa- 
tion to  be  gathered  from  the  records  of  university  or  college  —  why  he  was 
not  admitted  B.A.,  or  why  or  when  he  left  his  college.  I  am  apprised, 
however,  by  Mr.  C.  B.  Heberden,  the  Principal  of  Brasenose,  who  at  my 
request  kindly  instituted  the  requisite  search,  that  such  absence  of  informa- 
tion is  not  unusual,  for  the  College  Register  was  very  imperfectly  kept  in  the 
sixteenth  century.  If  this  was  our  Henry  Porter,  the  author  of  the  Pleasant 
History  of  the  Two  Angry  Women,  he  was  born  in  1573,  the  son  of  a  gentle- 
man of  London,  he  kept  an  uneventful  term  or  so  at  Brasenose,  and  was 
perhaps  still  there  in  1592  when  his  future  associate  in  Henslowe's  employ, 
John  Marston,  was  matriculated.  After  his  return  to  London  he  must  have 
taken  speedily  to  play-writing,  for  he  was  not  more  than  twenty-three  years 
of  age  when  we  find  him  selling  his  dramas  to  the  Admiral's  company  for 
distinctly  reputable  sums.  A  modest  straw  in  favour  of  the  supposition  that 
this  was  our  dramatist  is  the  explicit  statement  in  both  editions  of  our  play 
to  the  effect  that  its  author  was  Henry  Porter,  Gent.  We  have  no  proof 
that  the  Porter  of  Christ  Church,  who  took  his  only  degree  after  our  play  was 
printed,  had  any  right  in  1599  to  sign  himself  Gentleman. 


Dramatic  Career.  —  Although,  as  I  have  said,  only  one  of  Porter's 
plays  is  extant,  the  entries  in  Henslowe,  and  their  context,  enable  us 
to  form  some  conception  of  his  relation  to  the  contemporary  drama. 
They  indicate  that  between  December  16,  1596,  and  May  26,  1599, 
he  was  associated  as  a  writer  of  plays  with  the  Admiral,  the  Earl  of 
Nottingham's  company  of  actors,  and  that  after  February  28,  1599, 
his  services  were  pledged  to  that  company  alone.  It  is  possible  that 
he  had  also  acquaintance  among  the  Earl  of  Pembroke's  men,  who 
were  acting  at  The  Rose  for  a  short  time  during  October  and  No- 
vember, 1597,  'n  partnership  with  the  Admiral's  company,  but  of 
this  we  cannot  be  certain,  for  we  have  no  record  of  Porter's  actions 
between  March  7,  1597,  and  May  30  of  the  ensuing  year. 

The  payment  of  December  16,  1596,  is  not  in  loan  nor  "in 
earnest  of  a  boocke,"  but  delivered  as  for  a  play  then  completed ; 
and  the  sum,  even  if  it  were  not  a  final  instalment,  would  in  itself 
indicate  a  play  of  some  promise,  for  £6  or  £~j  was  as  much  as 
Henslowe  usually  gave  for  a  production  even  by  an  author  already 
distinguished.  If  the  payment  was  for  a  completed  "boocke,"  the 
play  would,  according  to  the  procedure  of  the  Admiral's  men,  have 


Henry    Porter  521 

been  ready  for  presentation  within  a  period  of  ten  days  to  six  weeks 
after  the  date  of  purchase.  The  following  were  the  new  plays  pre- 
sented by  this  company  during  that  period  :  That  Will  Be  Shall  Be, 
December  30,  1596;  Alexander  and  Lodoivick,  January  14,  and 
Woman  Hard  to  Please,  January  27,  1597.  Of  these  Alexander  wa& 
the  most  successful,  and  That  I  I' ill  Be  next.1  It  is  possible  that 
the  third  play  was  the  work  of  Heywood  who  had  been  recently 
paid  30  s. —  for  a  "  boockc."  2  As  to  Alexander,  it  is  mentioned  two 
years  later  as  the  property  of  Martin  Slater,3  and  there  is  reason  to 
conjecture  that  it  was  written  by  him.  But,  even  if  these  attribu- 
tions were  conclusive,  we  should  not  he  justified  in  assuming  —  that 
the  book  remaining  unassigned,  That  Will  Be  Shall  Be,  was  the 
property  for  which  Porter  was  paid  on  December  16,  1596.  It  is 
not,  however,  impossible  that  his  first  production  was  one  of  the 
three  most  popular  plays  put  upon  the  boards  at  The  Rose  that 
season.  That  Henslowe's  loan  to  Porter  on  the  following  March  7 
had  any  connection  with  a  play  of  December  16,  1596,  is  most 
unlikely.  Henslowe  was  not  by  way  of  disbursing  £g  for  one 
"  boocke."  The  date  is  also  too  remote  from  May  30,  1598,  to 
permit  of  our  connecting  this  loan  with  the  payment  for  Love  Pre- 
vented, there  mentioned,  let  alone  the  objection  that  if  the  entries 
of  March  7,  1597,  ana"  ^a.v  3°»  l59$->  re^er  to  tne  same  play,  the 
author  was  paid  the  unusually  high  sum  of  ,£8.  But  though  we 
cannot  prove  that  Porter  made  much  out  of  Henslowe  and  the 
Admiral's  men,  it  would  seem  that  they  made  a  good  deal  out  of 
him.  For  after  certain  purchases  from  Porter  and  during  the  period 
within  which  the  first  performances  of  his  plays  must  naturally  have 
occurred,  the  theatre  receipts  increased  appreciably.  The  play  of 
May  30,  I  598,  for  instance,  would,  according  to  custom,  have  been 
presented  some  time  between  June  10  and  June  30.  The  only 
other  new  play  that  could  during  those  weeks  have  assisted  to  swell 
the  profits  of  the  theatre  was  the  First  Part  of  Blacke  Battman  of 
the  North,  by  distinguished  authors,  to  be  sure,  but  not  extant. 

1  Alex,  was  acted  fifteen  times  during  the  next  six  months,   That  Will  Be  twelve  times. 
The  ff'.man  ran  for  tour  months  and  was  acted  ten  times.      Alex,  brought  in  almost  as  much 
as  the  others  combined. 

2  Henslowe,  p.   yS.      Fleay  conjecturally  identifies  it  with  the  Cballe nge  for  Beauty. 
8  Henslowc,  pp.  123,  128}   May  16,  and  July  18,  1598. 


522  Henry   Porter 

Henslowe's  weekly  receipts  from  "my  Lord  Admerall's  mean" 
during  the  month  before  June  10  had  averaged  ,£3  i6s.  3  d. ;  during 
the  period  between  June  10  and  June  30  they  rose  to  an  average 
of  .£5  4  5.  4  d,  ;  the  week  after  June  30  they  fell  again  to 
£2  1 1  s.  6  d.1  That  Porter  was  at  that  time  held  in  respect  by 
Henslowe  is  shown  by  the  transaction  of  June  26,  when  the  crafty 
manager  took  his  surety  for  the  performance  of  a  literary  and  pecun- 
iary obligation  by  Chettle,  than  whom  no  one  could  have  been 
habitually  more  in  arrears.  And  that  Porter's  plays  were  worth 
having  is  proved  by  Henslowe's  engaging,  in  February  of  the  next 
year,  everything  that  he  might  write,  whether  in  partnership  or 
alone.  That  this  appreciation  of  his  plays  was  shared  also  by  the 
company  appears  from  the  unusual  sums  which  they  expended  for 
the  apparel  and  properties  necessary  to  their  presentation.2 

Of  the  playwrights  at  that  time  attached  to  the  Admiral's  com- 
pany, the  most  intimately  associated  with  Porter  would  appear  to 
have  been  Chettle  ;  and,  through  him,  our  poet  must  have  been 
brought  into  close  relations  with  Robert  Wilson,  who  was  Chettle's 

O  ' 

colleague  in  that  Second  Part  of  Blacke  Battman,  for  the  completion 
of  which  Porter  went  surety,  —  also  with  Dekker  and  Drayton, 
who  had  assisted  in  the  writing  of  the  First  Part,  and  were,  maybe, 
interested  in  the  Second.  In  fact,  Chettle,  Dekker,  Drayton,  Wil- 
son were  boon  companions  in  productivity  and  the  '  marshallsey ' : 
to  go  bail  for  one  of  them  was  presumably  to  pay  for  all.  With 
Ben  Jonson,  who  was  just  then  coming  into  notice  as  a  dramatist, 
Henry  Porter  must  have  drained  many  a  flagon.  In  August,  1598, 
these  two  have  just  finished  writing  a  play  in  company  with  Chettle, 
Hot  Anger  Soon  Gold,  and  are  paid  a  fair  price  for  it  by  Henslowe, 
who  seems  to  regard  Porter,  however,  as  the  principal  author,  for  he 
enters  his  name  first  in  the  record.  But  if  the  returns  from  this 
play  are  included  in  Henslowe's  receipts  of  the  next  two  months, 
it  cannot  have  been  more  than  an  ordinarily  successful  production.3 
During  the  latter  part  of  1598  our  dramatist  is  engaged  upon  a 
play  called  by  Henslowe  the  2  Pte  of  the  2  angrey  women  of  abengton. 

1  Henslowe,  p.  101 . 

2  Two  A.  W.  A.,    Pt.  II.,  ;£i8    5  i.  ;    The  Spencers,  .£30    los.      Properties  rarely  cost 
more  than  ^15.  8  Henslowe,  p.   129,  August  z6,  October  28. 


Henry    Porter  523 

This  was  rehearsed  during  January  and  February,  1599,  and  by 
February  12,  the  day  on  which  final  payment  was  made  to  Porter, 
£i  I  1  had  been  expended  on  properties  for  the  performance.  It 
was  probably  ready  for  presentation  at  that  time,  and  its  success 
may  have  assisted  the  sudden  leap  in  Henslowe's  share  of  the  receipts 
from  £7  id*.,  for  the  week  ending  February  18,  to  ,£15  3  j.,  for 
the  ten  days  ending  February  29,2  1599.  This  play  paid  Porter  ^7, 
a  higher  figure  than  Hot  Anger  had  brought.  Some  two  weeks  later  he 
is  under  contract  to  produce  a  sequel,  the  ij  mery  wernen  of  abenton,  and 
only  four  days  later  still,  March  1 1,  he  is  engaged  in  a  new  partnership 
with  Chettle  to  produce  a  play  entitled  The  Spencers,  or  Despencen, 
a  magnificent  and  tragic  subject  perhaps  suggested  by  the  reprinting 
of  Marlowe's  Edward  II.  during  the  preceding  year.3  The  Spencers 
was  finished  by  the  22d  of  the  same  month.  That  it  was  looked 
upon  as  a  play  of  great  promise  appears  from  the  large  amounts 
which,  as  already  stated,  were  expended  in  its  preparation  for  the 
stage.  It  was  first  acted  some  time  after  April  14.  On  the  i6th 
Henslowe  enters  a  final  small  disbursement  for  properties,  of  which 
perhaps  the  need  was  perceived  during  the  first  performance.  His 
receipts  for  the  week  ending  April  15  rise  to  ^13  7 -f.,  four  times 
as  much  as  for  the  week  before;  while  the  entry,  ,£13  16  f.,  for  the 
week  next  ensuing,  during  which  the  play  was  surely  on  the  stage, 
is,  with  the  exception  of  those  of  February  29,  already  mentioned, 
and  of  June  3,*  the  largest  that  year.  Perhaps  by  April  22  the 
novelty  of  The  Spencers  had  begun  to  wear  oft",  for  there  is  again  a 
drop  in  Henslowe's  receipts,  to  £\  i  5  .f.,  the  week  ending  April  29. 5 
This  partnership  with  Chettle  existed,  by  the  way,  in  the  year  when 

1  £i  8  5  ?.,  if  we  may  assume  (as  Mr.  Fleay  does)  that  the  entries,  pp.  143-144,  of  January 
26  and  February  I,  refer  to  this  play.  2  Sic.  :  Henslowe,  p.  130. 

3  Not  the  other  way  around  as  Collier  thinks   (Henslowe,  p.   146,  n. )    for  Edw.   II.  had 
been  in  print  since  I  594. 

4  Henslowe,  pp.  i  30,  146.     Cf.  the  advance  from  £\o  8  s.  on  May  27,  I  599,  to  £i(>  iz  s. 
on  June  3,  the  day  after  Dekker  and  Chettle' s  Agamemnon  was  licensed  and  probably  first  acted  ; 
and  the  advance  from  ^3  14  J.  on  October  27,  I  599,  to  _£8  16  s.,  the  week  ending  November  3 
(  Henslowe,  p.  I  52),  during  which  the  successful  .Sr  "Jiibn  Oldcastell  had  "  ferste  "  been  played. 

6  But,  of  course,  we  cannot  with  certainty  attribute  the  increase  of  April  I  6  to  The  Spencers 
alone.  It  may  have  proceeded,  in  part,  from  the  revival  of  Hltx.  and  Lodo-wick,  for  the  prop- 
erties required  by  which  Henslowe  had,  on  March  31,  advanced  ^5  to  Juby.  Henslowe  had, 
moreover,  obtained  license  during  March  for  the  ./  Kyngti,  Brute  GrcnsbiHJe,  and  "  four  other 
plays"  (pp.  146,  147). 


524  Henry   Porter 

Every  Man  in  his  Humour  was  in  course  of  composition,  and  it  ended 
just  about  a  month  before  '  Bengemen '  passed  a  rapier  through 
Gabriel  Spenser  in  Hoxton  Fields. 

Beside  the  playwrights  already  mentioned,  Porter  must  have 
known  in  varying  degrees  of  intimacy  Heywood,  Haughton,  Day, 
Munday,  Chapman,  Hathaway,  and,  perhaps,  Rankins,  who  were 
then  writing  for  the  company  ;  also  Samuel  Rowley  and  Martin 
Slater,  who  appear  to  have  been  serving  as  actor-dramatists.  With 
the  players  Downton,  Richard  Alleyn,  Robert  Shaw,  and  the  poly- 
onymous  William  Bird,  Porter  was  associated  in  various  business 
negotiations.  Of  course  he  knew  the  above-mentioned  Gabriel 
Spenser,  and  Henslowe's  son-in-law,  Edward  Alleyn,  and  the  two 
fefFes,  and  Towne  and  Singer,  and  the  other  active  members  of  the 
company. 

Most  of  the  playwrights  in  Henslowe's  pay  lived  in  hand-to- 
mouth  style;  but  in  art  of  cozening  groats  from  the  manager  who 
in  turn  squeezed  angels  from  the  dramatist,  none  excelled  '  Harey  ' 
Chettle.  It  is  instructive  to  note  that,  from  the  period  of  close 
intimacy  with  Chettle,  Porter  sinks  ever  deeper  in  Henslowe's  debt. 
On  January  17,  1599,  he  had  borrowed  a  pound  of  Henslowe. 
He  was  then,  still,  in  the  heyday  of  his  success  ;  but  only  six  weeks 
later,  February  28,  we  find  Henslowe,  under  cover  of  a  further 
beggarly  advance,  acquiring  a  lien  on  all  his  productivity.  A  few 
days  after  that  the  two  '  Hareys,'  doubtless  with  a  hope  of  release 
from  the  moneylender's  grip,  are  sweating  out  The  Spencers  for  him  ; 
and  Chettle,  with  or  without  Porter's  knowledge,  is  borrowing 
another  half-sovereign  in  earnest  of  its  completion.  When,  on 
March  22,  the  joint  production  is  finished,  the  dramatists  are  paid 
less  for  it  than  The  Second  Part  of  the  Two  Angry  Jf^ornen  had  brought 
to  Porter  alone;  and  before  it  is  acted  Porter  has  given  his  note  of 
hand  to  Henslowe  for  another  pound;  and  so  proceeds  the  declen- 
sion of  'Harey'  Porter.  Between  December  16,  1596,  and 
June  26,  1598,  he  had  been  Henslowe's  'Mr.  Porter';  as  soon  as 
he  begins  to  borrow,  January  17,  1599,  he  is  'Harey  '  with  a  rare 
reversion  to  the  ancient  style  ;  after  April  7  there  is  no  reversion. 
The  loans,  too,  which  at  first  were  of  a  dignified  amount,  suddenly 
fall  to  2s.  6  d.  Familiarity  has  bred  as  usual;  and,  by  April  1 6, 


Henry    Porter  525 

1  Harey,'  who  at  this  time  owes  the  manager  25  *.,  is  compelled  in 
consideration  of  I  s.  to  clear  his  debt  on  the  morrow  or  forfeit  £  10. 
Next  day  Shylock  has  him,  but  for  some  reason  continues  to  dribble 
out  the  sixpences  until  May  26.  Then  '  Harey  '  signs  the  last 
I.  O.  U.  of  which  we  have  record,  and  drops  out  of  history  and 
Henslowc  with  as  little  warning  as  he  had  entered. 

Date  of  the  Extant  Play.  —  Porter  wrote  two  plays  and  engaged 
to  write  a  third  on  the  Women  of  Abington.  Of  a  First  Part  of  the 
Two  Angry  Women,  there  is  no  record  in  Henslowe,  at  least  under 
that  name.  But  of  the  Second  Part  the  entries  of  December  22, 
1598,  and  February  12,  1599,  make  explicit  mention;  and  an 
intervening  note  of  January  31,  1599,  which  records  an  outlay  for 
the  play  without  specification  of  the  part  is  by  date  and  position 
evidently  a  reference  to  this  same  Second  Part.  According  to  the 
entries  of  February  12,  the  sum  of  £2  was  on  that  day  expended 
in  a  concluding  purchase  of  properties  for  the  performance,  and  an 
equal  amount  was  given  to  Porter  in  final  payment  for  the  "boocke" 
entitled  the  2  pte.  of  the  angry  ivernen  of  abmgton.  So  closes  all 
record  of  that  second  part.  The  payment  of  ^2,  two  weeks  later, 
February  28,  is  the  usual  advance  "in  earneste  of"  a  "boocke" 
not  yet  finished  ;  but  the  title  of  it  was  the  ij  merv  women  of  abenton, 
and  it  was  undoubtedly  intended  to  be  a  continuation  of  the  general 
theme.  There  is,  however,  no  record  of  final  payment  (of  ^4 
or  ^5)  as  in  other  cases,  and  no  proof  that  the  play  was  com- 
pleted. I  have  no  doubt  that  the  play  of  which  the  text  is  here 
given,  The  Pleasant  History  of  the  Tii'o  Angry  Women  of  Abington,  is 
the  unrecorded  First  Part,  above  mentioned.  Our  drama  was  twice 
printed  in  1599  "as  it  was  lately  playde  by  ...  the  .  .  .  Admiral! 
his  servants,"  and  it  had,  in  all  probability,  been  in  the  possession 
of  the  company  for  some  time  before  publication  ;  whereas  the 
Second  Part  was  only  first  acted  in  that  year,  and  would  not,  with 
the  consent  of  the  company,  have  been  turned  over  to  printers. 
For  it  was  to  the  player's  interest  to  restrict  his  dramatic  stock-in- 
trade,  while  it  was  novel,  to  the  play-house.  That  the  non-extant 
play  of  December  22,  I  598-February  12,  1599,  which  is  explicitly 
called  the  Second  Part,  was  preceded  by  The  Pleasant  History  is, 
moreover,  confirmed  by  the  title-page  of  The  Pleasant  History,  which 


526  Henry    Porter 

is  unconscious  of  predecessor  and  sequel  alike.  By  how  long  a 
period,  then,  did  our  play  precede  the  missing  Second  Part  ?  The 
words  "as  it  was  lately  playde  "  on  the  title-pages  of  both  editions 
may  or  may  not  be  advertisement.  But  there  is,  at  any  rate,  no 
likelihood  that  the  first  performance  antedated  May  14,  1594,  when 
the  Admiral's  men  began  their  long  engagement  with  Henslowe  ; 
nor  that  it  fell  between  that  date  and  December  16,  1596,  for  it 
does  not  appear  (nor  any  name  that  suggests  it)  in  Henslowe's  con- 
secutive list  of  plays  performed  by  the  Admiral's  men  during  that 
period.  And  since  Henslowe  observed  his  method  of  entry  by 
days  and  plays  until  November  5,  1597,  tne  Ple^ant  History  would 
have  been  specified  in  that  part  of  the  diary  *  if  the  first  payment  to 
Porter,  December  16,  1596,  or  the  loan  of  the  succeeding  March  7, 
had  been  for  a  play  bearing  that  name.  Since  there  is  no  mention 
of  a  Pleasant  History  of  the  Two  Angry  Women  of  Abington  before  the 
close  of  Henslowe's  daily  register,  nor  of  a  First  Part  of  the  Two 
Angry  Women  between  that  date  and  December  22,  1598,  when 
negotiations  are  in  progress  for  a  Second  Part,  it  would  seem  that, 
whether  our  play  came  into  existence  before  or  after  Novem- 
ber 5,  1597,  it  must  have  first  passed  under  some  other  name. 
In  the  former  alternative  not  even  the  wildest  conjecture  can  iden- 
tify it  with  any  title  recorded  by  Henslowe  before  March  7,  1597, 
except  Woman  Hard  to  Please,  and  that  is  more  suitable  to  the  sub- 
ject of  Hey  wood's  Challenge  for  Beauty  than  of  our  Pleasant  History. 
It  is  not  until  two  months  after  the  loan  of  March  7  —  four  pounds 
to  Porter  —  that  one  comes  upon  the  first  performance  of  the  only 
play  of  that  period  that  can  at  all  correspond  with  the  Pleasant  His- 
tory. This  is  the  successful  but  as  yet  unidentified  Comodey  ofUmers, 
for  the  writing  of  which  Henslowe  records  no  payment,  although  he 
marks  it  "new"  and  makes  entries  which  show  that  it  was  acted  no 
less  than  twelve  times  at  his  "howsse"  between  May  u  and 
October  i  i  of  that  year,  and  that  it  supplanted  Alexander  and  That 
Will  Be  in  the  favour  of  the  public.  It  has  been  held,  to  be  sure, 
that  this  anonymous  Comodey  was  Every  Man  in  his  Humour;  but 
that  is  impossible,  for  Ben  Jonson  himself  states  that  Every  Man 
was  brought  out  during  the  next  year,  1598,  and  not  by  the 

1  pp.  82-91. 


Henry    Porter  527 

Admiral's,  but  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants,1  while  Henslowe 
includes  The  (^Comodey  of)  Umers  even  the  year  after  it  had  been 
acted  by  the  Admiral's  company  in  his  "  Note  of  all  such  bookes  as 
belong  to  the  Stocke  [of  that  same  company],  and  such  as  I  have 
bought  since  the  3d  of  Marche,  I598."2  Mr.  Fleay  thinks  that 
the  Comodey  was  Chapman's  Numerous  Dayes  Mirth,  and  Dr.  Ward 
inclines  to  accept  the  conjecture;  but  I  think  that  Mr.  p'leay's  plea 
in  favour  of  Chapman's  play  will  apply  as  well  to  Porter's  Pleasant 
History,  the  subtitle  of  which  advertises  u  the  humorous  mirth  of 
Dick  Coomes  and  Nicholas  Proverbes,"  while  the  scenes  develop 
"  humours,"  which  are  much  more  natural  than  those  of  Chapman's 
play,  and  fall  but  little  short,  indeed,  of  the  quality  that  characterizes 
B.  J.'s  Every  Man  in  his  Humour.  As  far  as  plot  goes  I  cannot  for 
a  moment  believe  that  the  ineptitudes  of  the  Humerous  Dayes  Mirth 
can  have  commanded  the  popularity  which  was  achieved  by  the 
Comodey  of  Umers. 

If,  however,  according  to  the  latter  alternative,  the  Pleasant  History 
came  into  existence  between  November  5,  1597,  and  December  22, 
1598,  the  attempt  to  identify  it  with  the  Comodey  of  Umers  falls  to 
the  ground.  But  another  possibility  at  once  presents  itself:  for 
the  only  mention  by  Henslowe  of  a  play  produced  in  the  interim  by 
Porter  alone  is  of  "a  boocke  called  Love  Prevented  "^  For  this  a 
payment  of  ,£4  is  made  on  May  30,  1598  ;  and  until  Love  Prevented 
turns  up,  and  turns  out  to  be  other  than  our  play,  it  will  be  open  to 
conjecture  whether  under  this  title  we  have  not  the  earliest  record 
of  the  Pleasant  History  of  the  Two  Angry  Women.  For  not  only  is 
this  the  sole  title  assigned  to  Porter  alone  during  the  period  under 
consideration,  it  is  also  a  title  fairly  descriptive  of  the  central  move- 
ment of  the  Pleasant  History  *  The  date  of  payment,  moreover, 
would  accord  with  the  assertion  of  recent  performance  which  appears 
upon  the  title-page  of  our  play  as  printed;  it  would  also  allow  for  a 
reasonable  lapse  of  time  before  the  publication,  which  was  not  by 
license  and  was  probably  of  a  printed  copy.  If  this  conjecture  be 

1  Title-page  of  E.  M.  i.  //.,  edited  by  B.  J.,  1616.  2  Diary,  p.  276.  8  p.  124. 

4  Notice  the  resume  of  the  action  in  the  speeches  of  Goursey  and  Sir  Raph,  Sc.  xiv., 
11.  277-289,  the  "crossing  of  true  love."  I  am  pleased  to  find  that  in  this  conjecture,  which 
I  had  imagined  to  be  new,  1  have  been  anticipated  by  Mr.  Fleay,  Cbron.  Engl.  Drama,  2,  163. 


528 

correct,  the  date  of  our  play  is  May  30,  1598;  and  we  have  an 
explanation,  in  part,  of  Henslowe's  increased  receipts  during  the 
month  following.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  our  play  be  the  Comodey 
of  Umers,  the  date  of  its  first  presentation  is  May  n,  1597- 
Whether  these  identifications  be  correct  or  not,  the  play  may  be 
dated  between  December  16,  1596,  and  December  22,  1598,  and 
it  was  probably  known  to  Meres  when  during  the  latter  year  he 
included  Porter  among  the  writers  of  comedy.1 

Dramatic  Qualities  :  Construction.  —  Of  the  plot  we  may  cry  with 
Goursey,  u  Here's  adoe  about  a  thing  of  nothing."  Not  this,  but 
occasional  situations  and  the  subconscious  qualities  of  humour  and 
verisimilitude  lend  distinction  to  the  play.  The  Pleasant  History 
has  atmosphere  and  therefore  entity.  It  is  a  creation.  Its  charac- 
ters stand  out.  Porter  knew  their  ways  and  words  before  he  knew 
their  history.  He  had  met  them  out  Cumnor  way  or  Hinksey, 
by  Bagley,  Abington,  and  Milton  on  many  a  cross-country  stroll. 
What  basis  there  was  for  Mrs.  Barnes's  jealousy,  whether  Master 
Barnes  had  too  often  gone  to  Milton  "  a-hunting  or  such  ordinary 
sports,"  and,  once  too  often,  "  chatted  with  "  Mrs.  Goursey  "  all 
day  till  night,"  we  are  not  explicitly  informed.  Nor  is  the  dramatist. 
That  Mrs.  Goursey  has  given  no  cause  for  offence  goes  without 
saying.  But  there  is  trouble  in  the  air.  The  wives  are  angered  : 
after  a  dissension  sufficiently  prolonged  to  afford  us  an  insight  into 
them  and  their  surroundings,  their  wrath  shall  be  appeased.  How, 
we  know  not ;  nor  does  the  dramatist,  but  it  seems  to  him  natural, 
if  not  novel,  that  the  son  and  daughter  of  these  foes  should  with 
their  marriage  "  bury  their  parents'  strife."  That  end  he  pursues, 
carrying  all  with  him  except  those  whom  he  most  would  carry. 
When  the  hour  is  nigh  and  we  are  expectant,  and  the  star-crossed 
lovers  have  made  for  Carfax  to  be  wed,  thev  lose  each  other  and 
everybody  else  in  a  midsummer  night's  "cunny  greene,"  where, 
whence,  and  whither,  darkling,  the  dramatic  persons  play  blind- 
man's  buff"  with  the  plot  till,  frustrate  of  discovery,  they  despair. 
Then  in  steps  Sir  Raph  Smith,  ex  tenebris  et  machina,  to  find  the 
heroine,  and  prophesy  solution  and  "the  lanthorne  of  the  day  "  and 

1  Halliwell-Phillips  assigns  Palladit  Tamia  to  the  early  part  of  1598,  but  there  are  no  notes 
in  the  S.  R.  to  aid  us  in  the  investigation.  Mr.  Fleay  assigns  it  to  November,  1598. 


Henry    Porter  529 

lend  our  hopes  a  fillip,  but  straight  to  lose  us  worse  than  ever  in  the 
devious  night.  Beholders  and  beheld  all  now  despair.  And  Porter 
might  still  be  spasmodically  rounding  his  rabbits  into  the  "  cunny 
greene "  and  out  again,  had  not  the  quarrelsome  wives  happened 
each  on  other,  and  on  them  in  turn  their  husbands  happened, 
who  simulating  mortal  combat  succeed  at  last  in  terrifying  their 
women  into  peace.  Only  after  the  characters  most  concerned 
have  thus  by  chance  taken  the  solution  into  their  own  hands  and 
effected  the  reconciliation,  does  the  peacemaker  intended  by  the 
dramatist  drop  in  with  the  lost  sweetheart  on  his  arm ;  and  the 
union  of  the  young  lovers,  which  had  been  designed  to  promote 
the  union  of  their  mothers,  proceeds  on  its  own  merits,  superfluous, 
like  the  second  tail  on  the  proverbial  toad.  The  plot,  therefore, 
is  not  the  "  thing."  Not  only  does  it  pursue  half  a  dozen  possi- 
bilities, each  of  which  it  drops  halfway  ;  it  starts  another  half-dozen, 
which  it  never  pursues.  But  the  auditor,  unforewarned,  pricks  to 
each  wild-goose  chase  in  turn.  The  complication  of  the  angry 
women  and  the  subplot  of  the  lovers,  with  its  pretence  of  a  solution, 
move  rapidly  through  the  first,  third,  sixth,  and  eighth  scenes  ;  but 
in  the  second  and  fourth  the  farcical  element  retards  the  pace  ;  in 
the  seventh  a  new  and  futile  start  is  made,  and  in  the  ninth  the 
platt  itself  slides  into  a  kind  of  commedia  air  improvise.  From  this 
it  is  rescued  at  the  beginning  of  Scene  xii.  by  Master  Barnes's 
u  pollicie."  But  although  his  "drift  device"  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  the  audience,  I  have  my  doubts  whether  any  hearer 
has  caught  the  hint,  and  I  am  sure  that  to  most  readers  the  sham 
combat  between  the  husbands  in  Scene  xiv.  comes  as  something 
impromptu  and  secondary.  Consequently  a  luxury  of  anticipation 
has  been  forfeited.  The  u  pollicie "  is  in  itself  a  capital  ruse 
for  curing  shrewishness,  and  it  has  been  frequently  used  of  later 
years,  as,  for  instance,  in  Gillette's  Because  She  Loved  Him  So  ;  but 
in  1597  '*  had  tne  additional  charm  of  novelty,  and  deserved  a 
better  handling.  The  situation  in  Scene  \  i.,  where  Mrs. 
Goursey  snatches  and  restores  her  husband's  letter,  is,  conversely, 
well  prepared,  but  lacks  all  consequent.  The  marksman  draws 
his  bow  to  the  top  of  its  bent,  then  gradually  relaxes  the  ten- 
sion —  because  he  has  forgot  his  arrow.  But,  though  Porter  is 


530  Henry    Porter 

guilty  of  imperfect  devices,  few  English  comedies  before  his  time 
can  boast  of  scenes  more  realistic  and  humorous  than  the  game  at 
tables,  the  burlesque  wooing  of  Mall  at  her  window,  and  the  comic 
irony  of  the  climax  between  the  disputatious  mothers  under  whose 
beaks  the  debated  chickens  are  eloping.  In  fact,  with  all  crudities, 
the  plot  develops  an  interesting  individuality,  for  which  the  author 
does  not  seem  to  be  at  all  responsible;  none  the  less  interesting  if 
"  a  German  from  the  waist  downward,  all  slops,  and  a  Spaniard 
from  the  hip  upward,  no  doublet." 

Portrayal  of  Character.  —  When  we  turn  to  the  "  persons  "  and 
their  "  humours  "  we  realize  the  architectonics  of  the  play.  There 
is  something  at  once  natural  and  masterly  in  the  ease  with  which 
Porter  introduces  the  condition  of  "  neighbour  amide,"  wherewith 
the  masters  delude  themselves,  while  their  spouses  blow  upon 
the  coals  of  hatred:  the  hostess,  teeming  with  innuendo,  —  "mal- 
ice embowelled  in  her  tongue,"  - —the  lady  of  Milton  read  in 
/Esop's  fables,  quick  to  conjecture,  and  "  every  day  as  good  as 
Barnes's  wife,"  whether  to  divert  a  moral  or  direct  a  curse.  And 
as  the  women  promise  they  develop :  Mrs.  Barnes,  a  "  jealous, 
slandering,  spiteful  queane "  ;  Mrs.  Goursey,  subtler  and  fairer 
spoken,  but  incapable  of  backgammon  "  if  standers  by  doe  talke," 
—  patently  obedient,  but  impatient  of  rebuke,  soothing  her  husband 
with  soft  words,  but,  inward,  fuming  at  his  "  Peace,  be  quiet,  wife  "  ; 
easily  his  better,  bidding  him  "grow  to  the  housetop  with  your  anger, 
Sir,"  and  then  humouring  his  pleasure,  not  because  of  his  "incense- 
ment,"  but  his  "  health."  The  opprobrious  epithets  of  Barnes's  wife 
Mistress  Goursey  returns  into  her  teeth  ;  damns  her  as  "  mankind  "  ; 
takes  up  the  quarrel  last  and  is  last  to  lay  it  down.  In  fact,  as 
Mistress  Goursey  is  the  more  independent  of  the  twain,  she  is  also 
historically  the  more  original.  Mrs.  Barnes,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
an  amalgam  of  stock  shrews,  gossips,  and  jealous  wives:  a  descendant 
of  Tom  Tyler's  more  strenuous  half,  a  kinswoman  of  Dame  Chat,  a 
Kitely  in  petticoats,  the  remote  grandmother  of  Colman's  Mrs.  Oakly. 

Barnes  and  Goursey  are  henpecked  husbands  of  the  remordent 
variety.  Barnes,  the  more  experienced  in  domestic  infelicity,  is 
correspondingly  the  more  given  to  moral  tags  and  pregnant  sentences. 
He  sometimes  rises  almost  to  poetry,  as  when  he  tells  his  wife  :  — 


Henry    Porter  531 

"  Rough,  wrathful  words 
Are  bastards  got  by  rashness  in  the  thoughts;  " 

from  bathos  he  is  just  saved  by  a  sense  of  the  incongruous  :  "  O 
doe  not"  begs  he  of  the  virago  whom  he  styles  "sweete," 

"  O,  doe  not  set  the  organ  of  thy  voice 
On  such  a  grunting  tone  of  discontent  ! 
Doe  not  deforme  the  beautie  of  thy  tongue 
With  such  mishapen  answeres." 

It  is  appropriate  that  upon  him  who  has  given  rise  to  the  brief 
unpleasantness  by  inviting  guests  without  his  wife's  consent,  should 
rest  the  onus  of  devising  the  effective  "  pollicie  "  of  reconciliation. 

From  him  Goursey  is  well  differenced.  Possessed  of  a  finer 
wife  and  a  quicker  temper,  when  the  former,  contrary  to  expectation, 
crosses  the  latter  he  well-nigh  falls  into  an  apoplexy.  Oaths  he 
abhors,  but  in  the  access  of  his  rage  swears  horribly  and  apologizes 
to  the  Almighty  between  breaths. 

That  the  morals  of  the  sons  reproduce  those  of  the  sires  in  their 
salad  days,  I  reluctantly  suspect.  It  is  the  recital  of  young  Frank's 
licentiousness  that  convinces  young  Philip  that  here  is  just  the  hus- 
band for  Sister  Mall.  And  —  considering  that  Mall  is  frankly  and 
squarely  what  her  mother  calls  her,  a  "  lustie  guts  "  and  "  vile  girl," 
in  fact  her  mother's  daughter,  fit  to  "  floute  the  devill  and  make 
blush  the  boldest  face  of  man  that  ere  man  saw  "  a  swearing  wench 
whose  only  claim  to  morals  is  immorality  —  Philip's  judgment  is 
correct.  There  is,  in  my  opinion,  no  coarser-minded  girl  in  Eliza- 
bethan comedy  ;  and  at  the  same  time  there  obtains  no  dramatic 
portrayal  of  the  animal  more  observantly  conceived  or  more 
faithfully  executed.  That  she  is,  as  Mr.  Ellis  says,  less  sophisti- 
cated than  Congreve's  Prue,  is  not  exactly  to  her  credit.  Nor 
need  I  make  her  out  "  a  wholesome,  robust  English  girl  .  .  .  with  a 
brave  openness,  loving  and  sincere,"  in  order  to  justify  my  appre- 
ciation of  Porter's  skill  in  creating  her.  She  is,  indeed,  robust 
and  Elizabethan,  seventeen  and  upward ;  but  within  she  is  a 
mate  for  Caliban;  no  relation  to  Prue,  —  rather  a  link  between 
Wapull's  Wilful  Wanton  and  Vanbrugh's  Hoyden.  It  is  hardly 


532  Henry    Porter 

necessary  to  point  out  the  literary  and  dramatic  affinities  of  Sir 
Raph  and  his  wife  :  the  buck-hunting  squire  and  the  lady  tender- 
hearted and  "  pitous." 

The  foregoing  are  characters  of  broad  outline  ;  but  each  has,  as 
well,  his  quirk  of  conduct,  manners,  or  of  style.  The  jealous  wife 
with  her  "  stopt  compares";  "  Mistresse  Would-Have,"  who  has 
u  let  restrained  fancy  lose,"  and  sworn  to  lead  no  apes  in  hell ;  her 
brother,  a  poet  at  second-hand,  and  "  sick  discourser  "  of  his  sister's 
wit ;  Nan  Lawson's  lover  of  "  quick  invention  "  and  "  pleasure- 
aiming  mind,"  —  these  and  others  of  the  major  movement  are 
as  palpably  in  their  "  humours "  as  Mrs.  Otter,  Doll  Common, 
Master  Stephen,  or  Kitely,  or  Truewit.  And  when  we  turn  to  the 
secondary  group  we  find  the  "  humours  "  not  only  advertised  upon 
the  title-page  but  specified  in  the  text.  Dick  Coomes  is  u  humord 
bluntly  "  to  brag  and  swear  and  drink  and  quarrel  and  talk  bawdy. 
"  I  see,  by  this  dearth  of  good  swords,  that  dearth  of  sword-and- 
buckler  fight  begins  to  grow  out  ;  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  complains  this 
swashbuckler  serving-man.  With  "  Sbloud  !  "  he  comes  upon  the 
stage,  and  there's  little  left  of  God  unhallowed  when  Coomes  sub- 
sides beneath  his  buckler  in  the  dark.  "  Why,  what  a  swearing 
keeps  this  drunken  asse,"  exclaims  Francis.  "  Peace,  do  not  marre 
his  humour"  Phil  replies.  "Away,  bawdie  man,"  cries  Hodge, 
and  even  the  Boy  must  say,  "  Here  him  no  more,  maister  ;  he  doth 
bedawbe  ye  with  his  durtv  speche."  He  has  a  "  merrie  humour" 
too,  this  Coomes,  of  punning,  and  has  brought  "  the  apparell  of 
his  wit  .  .  .  into  fashion  of  an  honor."  A  Thraso  of  the  servants' 
hall,  he'll  outswear  any  'Pharaoh's  foot'  of  a  tailor's  shop.  He 
can  dispute  precedence  with  Ancient  Pistol  as  "  the  foul-mouthedst 
rogue  in  England";  and  when  he's  in  his  "quarreling  humour"  not 
Pistol,  nor  Bobadil,  nor  the  '  humorous '  Nim  could  swagger  to 
Dawson's  close  or  out  of  a  horse-pond  with  a  more  humorous  grace. 
It  is  to  be  noted  that,  in  his  first  lines,  Coomes  animadverts  upon 
"the  humour  of  those  young  springals,"  his  masters,  who  "will 
spend  all  their  fathers'  good  at  gaming  "  ;  also  that  Philip's  serving- 
man  has  his  humour  both  of  manners  and  of  style:  "a  spruce 
slave,"  cross-gartered  like  Malvolio,  "a  nosegay  bound  with  laces 
in  his  hat,"  u  all  proverbes  in  his  speech  .  .  .  because  he  would 


Henry   Porter  533 

speak  truth,"  a  dramatic  Camden  or  Ray,  who  quotes  Latin  withal, 
and  is  as  marked  in  his  "  humour  "  as  Coomes  and  Franke's  Boy, 
and  Mall  and  Mrs.  Barnes  in  theirs. 

Place  in  the  History  of  Comedy.  —  It  would,  therefore,  be  of  no 
small  importance  to  determine  whether  this  Pleasant  History  is 
Henslowe's  Comodey  of  Urners  of  May  1 1,  1597;  ^or  ^  'f  be,  tn's 
play  of  characteristics  precedes  Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  and  dis- 
putes the  "  place  peculiar  to  itself  in  our  dramatic  literature  "  which 
most  critics  have  assigned  to  that  masterpiece  of  Ben  Jonson.  But 
even  if  it  be  not  the  play  of  May  1 1,  1597,  our  drama  was  certainly 
written  before  December  22,  1598,  probably  by  May  30  of  that 
year;  and  consequently  to  Porter,  as  an  influential  associate  of 
Chapman  and  Jonson,  must  be  given  something  of  the  credit  of 
blazing  the  path  toward  the  comedy  of  characteristic.  The  fun 
of  the  play  has  at  once  a  Chaucerian  shrewdness  and  a  something 
of  the  careless  guffaw  of  W.  Wager.  Its  realism  throws  back  to 
Mak,  and  *Johan,  Tom  Tyler  and  Gammer  Gurton.  As  a  comedy  of 
unadulterated  native  flavour,  breathing  rural  life  and  manners  and 
the  modern  spirit,  constructed  with  knowledge  of  the  stage,  and 
without  affectation  or  constraint,  it  has  no  foregoing  analogue  except 
perhaps  The  Pinner  of  IVaktfield.  No  play  preceding  or  contempo- 
rary yields  an  easier  conversational  prose,  not  even  the  Merry  Wives. 

We  must  not  close  this  study  without  remarking  certain  resem- 
blances to  Shakespeare.  In  the  matter  of  situations  and  language 
traces  of  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  of  1592,  and  the  Midsummer-Night's 
Dream  of  1594—1595,  appear.  The  fanciful  reader  might,  indeed, 
suspect  something  like  a  good-natured  burlesque  of  the  balcony  scene 
in  the  conversation  between  Frank  and  Mall  "at  her  window  "; 
perhaps  even  of  the  motif  of  Shakespeare's  tragedy,  in  the  loves  of 
the  children  of  the  inimical  wives  of  Abington  :  "How,  sir?  your 
wife  !  "  says  Mrs.  Barnes  to  Francis  :  — 

"  Wouldst  them  my  daughter  have  ? 
He  rather  have  her  married  to  her  grave." 

Even  so  had  spoken  Lady  Capulet.  And  Romeo  seems  to  be 
muttering  in  his  sleep  through  Philip's  soliloquy:  — 


534  Henry    Porter 

"  The  skie   .    .    . 

Is  in  three  houres  become  an  Ethiope  .    .    . 
She  will  not  have  one  of  those  pearled  starres 
To  blab  her  sable  metamorphosis." 

If  anything  further  were  needed  to  illustrate  Philip's  taste  in  plays, 
it  would  be  furnished  by  the  hazy  reminiscence  of  "  the  imperial 
votaress"  and  "the  nun,  for  aye  ...  in  shady  cloister  mewed." 
Indeed,  if  Porter  did  not  have  in  mind  the  quadrilateral  wanderings  of 
the  Midsummer- Nigh? s  Dream  when  Frank  and  Mall  missed  the  way 
to  Carfax,  I  am  much  surprised.  That  Dick  Coomes,  when  he 
stood  between  his  mistress  and  the  angel  to  be  tempted,  was  not 
thinking  of  Gobbo,  is,  of  course,  possible,  but  it  is  not  possible 
that  Dick  Coomes's  creator  was  not  familiar  with  the  Merchant 
of  Venice.  There  is  also,  as  I  have  already  implied,  a  quality  in 
Dick's  sword-and-buckler  voice  that  rings  contemporaneous  with 
the  Henry  //7.,  Pts.  I.  and  II.  To  trace  a  connection  between  the 
well-known  lines  of  Hamlet  in  1602  and  Porter's 

"  How  loathsome  is  this  beast  man's  shape  to  me 
This  mould  of  reason  so  unreasonable" 

(1597—98),  would,  I  fear,  be  fanciful.  The  resemblance,  faint  as 
it  is,  may  be  due  to  mere  coincidence  or  to  derivation  from  a  com- 
mon source. 

Previous  Editions  and  the  Present  Text.  —  Two  editions  of  this 
play  were  published  in  1599:  one  for  Joseph  Hunt  and  William 
Ferbrand  ;  the  other  for  Ferbrand  alone  (in  same  place  of  business). 
From  the  variations  in  spelling  and  text  which  characterize  the 
Ferbrand  quarto  and  are  evidently  intended  for  improvements,  and 
from  the  fact  that  Ferbrand  was  still  alone  when,  in  1600,  he  pub- 
lished another  play,  Look  About  Tou,  I  conclude  that  the  edition 
printed  during  the  period  of  partnership  was  the  earlier  of  the  two. 
It  will  be  indicated  in  the  notes  to  the  present  text  as  Q  i.  Of  Q  i 
a  copy  is  to  be  found  in  the  British  Museum  (162.  d.  55).  Of 
Q  2,  published  by  Ferbrand  alone,  there  are  two  copies  in  the 
Bodleian,  one  formerly  owned  by  Malone,  the  other  by  Douce. 
Q  2  furnishes  the  more  careful  text.  That  it  was  made,  however, 
not  from  manuscript,  but  from  (^  i,  is  evidenced  by  the  retention 


Henry    Porter  535 

of  occasional  printers'  errors  and  oddities  characteristic  of  the  earlier 
edition.  Dyce,  in  his  edition  (Dy.)  for  the  Percy  Society,  1841, 
followed  Q  i,  with  occasional  readings  from  Q  2  and  silent 
emendations.  This  edition,  with  modernized  spelling,  is  included 
in  Hazlitt's  Dodsley,  Vol.  VII.  (H.).  Mr.  Havelock  Ellis's  edition 
of  the  play  (E.),  with  acts,  scenes,  and  modernized  spelling,  for  the 
Mermaid  Scries  (Nero  and  Other  Plays,  1888),  appears  to  be  based 
upon  H.  The  present  text  is  that  of  Q  2  (Bodl.  Malone  184), 
with  such  substitutes  from  Q  I  as  are  indicated  in  the  footnotes. 

CHARLES  MILLS  GAYLEY. 


THE 


PLEASANT 

HISTORY    OF 

the  two  angry  women 
of  Abington. 

With  the  humorous  mirth  of  Dicke  Coomes 

and  Nicholas  Prouerbes,  two 

Seruingmen. 

As  it  "doas  lately  -playde  by  the  right  Honorable 

the  Karle  of  Nottingham,  Lord  high 

Admirall  his  feruants 

By  Henry  Porter  Gent. 


VIGNETTE 


Imprinted  at  London  for  William  Per  brand, 

and  arc  to  he  folclc  at  his  (hop  at  the  corner  of 
Colman  ftrcete  neere  Loathbury. 


The    Names   of  the   Speakers 1 


M.    GOURSEY. 

MIST.    GOURSEY. 

M.  BARNES. 

MIST.    BARNES. 

FRANKE   GOURSEY. 

PHILLIP  [BARNES] 

BOY. 

MALL    BARNES. 

DICK   COOMES. 

HODGE. 

NICHOLAS   PROVERBS. 

SIR    RAPH   SMITH. 

[LADY  SMITH.] 

WILL,  Sir  Raphes  man. 


First  in  Q  ^. 


The   Prologue 

Gentlemen,  I  come  to  yee  like  one  that  lackes  and  would  borrow, 
but  was  loath  to  aske  least  hee  should  be  denied  :  I  would  aske,  but 
I  would  aske  to  obtaine ;  O  would  I  knewe  that  manner  of  asking  ! 
To  beg  were  base,  and  to  cooche  low  and  to  carry  an  humble  shew 
of  entreatie  were  too  dog-like,  that  fawnes  on  his  maister  to  get  a 
bone  from  his  trencher:  out,  curre  !  I  cannot  abide  it  to  put  on  the 
shape  and  habit  of  this  new  worlds  new  found  beggars,  mistermed 
souldiers,  as  thus  ;  '  Sweet  gentlemen,  let  a  poore  scholler  implore 
and  exorate1  that  you  would  make  him  rich  in  the  possession  of  a 
mite  of  your  favours,  to  keep  him  a  true  man  in  wit,  and  to  pay  for 
his  lodging  among  the  Muses  !  so  God  him  helpe,  he  is  driven  to  a 
most  low  estate  :  tis  not  unknowne  what  service  of  words  he  hath 
been  at ;  hee  lost  his  lims  in  a  late  conflict  of  floute  ;  a  brave  repulse 
and  a  hot  assault  it  was,  he  doth  protest,  as  ever  he  saw  since  hee 
knewe  what  the  report  of  a  volley  of  jestes  were  ;  he  shall  therefore 
desire  you' —  A  plague  upon  it,  each  beadle  disdained  would 
whip  him  from  your  companie.  Well,  gentlemen,  I  cannot  tell 
howe  to  get  your  favours  better  then  by  desert :  then  the  worse 
lucke,  or  the  worse  wit,  or  some  what,  for  I  shall  not  now  deserve 
it.  Welcome2  then,  I  commit  my  selfe  to  my  fortunes,  and  your 
contents  ;  contented  to  dye,  if  your  severe  judgements  shall  judge 
me  to  be  stung  to  death  with  the  adders  hisse. 

1  Qtos.,  txtrate.  2  Q  1,  '  Well.' 


539 


The   pleasant   Comedy   of  the 

two   angry    If^omen   of 

Abington 


[Scene  First.      Abington.     Near  Master  Barneses  House : 
The  Orchard1'] 

Enter  MASTER   GOURSEY  and  bis  wife,  and  MASTER   BARNES  and  bis  wife, 
with  their  two  sonnes,  and  their  two  servants. 

Maister  Goursey.    Good  maister  Barnes,  this  entertaine  of  yours, 
So  full  of  courtesie  and  rich  delight, 
Makes  me  misdoubt  my  poore  ability 
In  quittance  of  this  friendly  courtesie. 

Al.  Bar.    O  master  Goursey,  neighbour  amitie  5 

Is  such  a  Jewell  of  high  reckoned  worth, 
As  for  the  attaine  of  it  what  would  not  I 
Disburse,  it  is  so  precious  in  my  thoughts  ! 

M.  Gou.    Kinde  sir,  neere  dwelling  amity  indeed 
Offers  the  hearts  enquiry  better  view  10 

Then  love  thats  seated  in  a  farther  soyle  : 
As  prospectives 2  the3  neerer  that  they  be 
Yeeld  better  judgement  to  the  judging  eye; 
Thingcs  scene  farre  off  are  lessened  in  the  eye, 
When  their  true  shape  is  scene  being  hard  by.  15 

1  K.,  Act  I.  Sc.   i.      No  division  into  acts  and  scenes  in  Qtos. 

2  Prospects,  views.      Dyce.  3  (,)  I ,  be. 

54' 


542      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the   two       [sc. 

M.  Ear.    True,  sir,  tis  so  ;  and  truely  I  esteeme 
Meere  1  amity,  familiar  neighbourhood, 
The  cousen  germaine  unto  wedded  love. 

M.  Gou.    I,2  sir,  thers  surely  some  aliance  twixt  them, 
For  they  have  both  the  off-spring  from  the  heart :  2O 

Within  the  hearts  bloud  ocean  still  are  found 
Jewels  of  amity  and  jemmes  of  love. 

M.  Bar.    I,  master  Goursey,  I  have  in  my  time 
Scene  many  shipwracks  of  true  honesty  ; 

But  incident  such  dangers  ever  are  25 

To  them  that  without  compass  sayle  so  farre  : 
Why,  what  need  men  to  swim  when  they  may  wade  ? 
But  leave  this  talke,  enough  of  this  is  said  : 
And,  master  Goursey,  in  good  faith,  sir,  wellcome ;  — 
And,  mistresse  Goursey,  I  am  much  in  debt  30 

Unto  your  kindnes  that  would  visit  me. 

Ml.  Gou.    O  master  Barnes,  you  put  me  but  in  minde 
Of  that  which  I  should  say  ;   tis  we  that  are 
Indebted  to  your  kindness  for  this  cheere  : 

Which  debt  that  we  may  repay,  I  pray  lets  have  35 

Sometimes  your  company  at  our  homely  house. 

Mi.  Bar.    That,  mistresse  Goursey,  you  shall  surely  have  ; 
Heele3  be  a  bolde  guest  I  warrant  ye, 
And  boulder  too  with  you  then  I  would  have  him. 

Mis.  Gou.    How  doe  ye  meane  he  will  be  bolde  with  me  ?         40 

Mi.  Bar.    Why,  he  will  trouble  you  at  home,  forsooth, 
Often  call  in,  and  aske  ye  how  ye  doe; 
And  sit  and  chat  with  you  all  day  till  night, 
And  all  night  too,  if  he  might  have  his  will. 

M.  Bar.    I,  wife,  indeed,  I  thanke  her  for  her  kindnes  ;  45 

She  hath  made  me  much  good  cheere  passing  that  way. 

Mi.  Bar.    Passing  well  done  ot  her ;   she  is  a  kinde  wench.  — 
I  thanke  ye,  mistresse  Goursey,  for  my  husband  ; 
And  if  it  hap  your  husband  come  our  way 

1  Absolute,  perfect.       Dyce.  2  Ay  ;   so  also  in  1.  23  et  passim. 

3  Dyce  suggests  for  the  metre,  '  He  will.'  But  more  probably  '  Heele  '  was  a  monosyllable, 
and  'bolde'  (<,)  I,  'bould')  a  dissyllable.  According  to  the  editor  of  the  Oxford  Glossary 
"  bold  "  is  so  pronounced  at  the  present  day. 


i]  #ngry  women  of  Abington          543 

A  hunting  or  such  ordinary  sportes,  50 

He  do  as  much  for  yours  as  you  for  mine. 

M.  Gou.    Pray  doe,  forsooth.  —  Gods   Lord,  what    meanes   the 

woman  ? 

She  speakes  it  scornefully  :   i  faith  I  care  not ; 

Things  are  well  spoken,  if  they  be  well  taken.—  \_Aside.~\ 

What,  mistresse  Barnes,  is  it  not  time  to  part  ?  55 

Mis.  Bar.    Whats  a  clocke,  sirra  ? 

Nicholas.    Tis  but  new  strucke  one. 

M.  Gou.    I  have  some  busines  in  the  towne  by  three. 

M.  Bar.    Till  then  lets  walke  into  the  orchard,  sir. 
What,  can  you  play  at  tables  ? l  60 

M.  Gou.    Yes,  I  can. 

M.  Bar.    What,  shall  we  have  a  game  ? 

M.  Gou.    And  if  you  please. 

M.  Bar.    I  faith,  content ;   weele  spend  an  hower  so.  — 
Sirra,  fetch  the  tables.2  65 

Nic.    I  will,  sir.  Exit. 

Phil.    Sirra  Franke,  whilst  they  are  playing  heere, 
Weele  to  the  greene  to  bowles. 

Fra.    Phillip,  content.  —  Coomes,  come  hyther,  sirra  : 
When  our  fathers  part,  call  us  upon  the  greene.  —  70 

Phillip,  come,  a  rubber,3  and  so  leave. 

Phil.    Come  on.  Exeunt  [PHILLIP  and  FRANCIS]. 

Coom.  Sbloud,  I  doe  not  like  the  humour  of  these  springals;  theil 
spend  all  their  fathers  good  at  gamming.  But  let  them  trowle  the 
bowles  upon  the  greene;  He  trowle  the  bowles  in  the  buttery  by 
the  leave  of  God  and  maister  Barnes  :  and  his  men  be  good  fellows, 
so  it  is;  if  they  be  not,  let  them  goe  snick  up.4  Exit.  77 

Enter  NICHOLAS  with  the  tables. 

M.  Bar.    So,  set  them  downe.  — 
Mistresse  Goursey,  how  doe  you  like  this  game? 

Mi.  Gou.    Well,  sir.  80 

1  Backgammon;  cf.  Shakesp.  L.  L.  L.  V.,  ii.   326. 

2  The  audience  were  to  suppose  that  the  stage  now  represented  an  orchard  ;  for  be  it  remem- 
bered that  there  was  no  movable  painted  scenery  in  the  theatres  at  the  time  when  this  play  was 
produced.      Dyce.       3  J,)  i,  '  rubbers,'  as  frequently  used.      *  J2  i,  '  sneik  up  '  — be  hanged. 


544      ^  pleasant   Gomedie  of  the  two       [sc. 

M.  Ear.   Can  ye  play  at  it  ? 

Mis.  Gou.   A  little,  sir. 

M.  Bar.   Faith,  so  can  my  wife. 

M.  Gou.  Why,  then,  master  Barnes,  and  if  you  please, 
Our  wives  shall  try  the  quarrell  twixt  us  two,  85 

And  weele  looke  on. 

M.  Bar.   I  am  content.  —  What,  woman,1  will  you  play  ? 

Mis.  Gou.   I  care  not  greatly. 

Mis.  Bar.   Nor  I,  but  that  I  thinke  sheele  play  me  false. 

M.  Gou.   He  see  she  shall  not.  90 

Mis.  Bar.   Nay,  sir,  she  will  be  sure  you  shall  not  see, 
You  of  all  men  shall  not  marke  her  hand  ; 
She  hath  such  close  conveyance  in  her  play. 

M.  Gou.   Is  she  so  cunning  growne  ?     Come,  come,  lets  see. 

Mis.  Gou.   Yea,  mistris  Barnes,  will  ye  not  house  your  jests,    95 
But  let  them  rome  abroad  so  carelesly  ? 
Faith,  if  your  jealious  tongue  utter  another, 

He  crosse  ye  with  a  jest,  and  ye  were  my  mother.  —  [Aside. ~\ 

Come,  shall  we  play  ? 

Mis.  Bar.   I,  what  shall  we  play  a  game  ?  I  oo 

Mis.  Gou.   A  pound  a  game. 

M.  Gou.  How,  wife  ? 

Mis.  Gou.   Faith,  husband,  not  a  farthing  lesse. 

M.  Gou.   It  is  too  much  ;   a  shilling  were  good  game. 

Aff/'j] .  Gou.   No,  weell  be  ill  huswives  once;  105 

You  have  oft  been  ill  husbands  :   lets  alone. 

M.  Bar.   Wife,  will  you  play  so  much  ? 

Mis.  Bar.    I  would  be  loath  to  be  so  franke  a  gaimster 
As  mistresse  Goursey  is  ;   and  yet  for  once 
He  play  a  pound  a  game  aswell  as  she.  i  10 

M.  Bar.   Go  to,  youle  have  your  will.  Offer  to  goe  from  them. 

Mis.  Bar.   Come,  ther's  mv  stake. 

Mis.  Gou.   And  ther's  mine. 

Mis.  Bar.   Throw  for  the  dice.      Ill  luck  !   they  are  yours. 

M.  Bar.    Master  Goursey,  who  sayes  that  gainings  bad,  i  15 

1  C)    i ,  '  women  ;  '    hut  Barnes  is  addressing  his  wife.      Dy.  refers  to  1.  147  5   and  to  1.  1 77, 
where  both  £)tos.  have  'woman.' 


i]  &ngry  women   of  Abington  545 

When  such  good  angels  l  walke  twixt  every  cast  ? 

M.  Gou.  This  is  not  noble  sport, -but  royall  play. 

M.  Bar.   It  must  be  so  where  royals  walke  so  fast. 

Mis.  Bar.   Play  right,  I  pray. 

Mi.  Gou.  Why,  so  I  doe.  120 

Mis.  Bar.   Where  stands  your  man  ? 

Mis.  Gou.   In  his  right  place. 

Mis.  Bar.   Good  faith,  I  thinke  ye  play  me  foule  an  ace. 

M.  Bar.   No,  wife,  she  playes  ye  true. 

Mis.  Bar.    Peace,  husband,  peace-,   ile  not  be  judged  by  you.  125 

Mis.  Gou.   Husband,  master  Barnes,  pray  both  goe  walke; 
We  cannot  play,  if  standers  by  doe  talke. 

M.  Gou.   Well,  to  your  game  ;   we  will  not  trouble  ye. 

[GOURSEY  and  BARNES]  goe  from  them. 

Mi.  Gou.   Where  stands  your  man  now  ? 

Mi.  Bar.   Doth  he  not  stand  right  ?  130 

Mi.  Gou.   It  stands  betweene  the  pointes. 

Mi.  Bar.   And  thats  my  spight. 
But  yet  me  thinkes  the  dice  runnes  much  uneven, 
That  I  throw  but  dewes  ase  and  you  eleven. 

Mis.  Gou.   And  yet  you  see  that  I  cast  downe  the  hill.  135 

Mi.  Bar.   I,  I  beshrew  ye,  tis  not  with  my  will. 

Mis.  Gou.   Do  ye  beshrew  me  ? 

Mi.  Bar.   No,  I  beshrew  the  dice, 
That  turne  you  up  more  at  once  then  me  at  twise. 

Mi.  Gou.   Well,  you  shall  see  them  turne  for  you  anon.  140 

Mi.  Bar.   But  I  care  not  for  them  when  your  game  is  done. 

Mi.  Gou.   My  game  !   what  game  ? 

Mi.  Bar.   Your  game,  your  game  at  tables. 

Mi.  Gou.   Well,  mistresse,  well,  I  have  red  .^Esops  fables, 
And  know  your  morrals  meaning  well  enough.  145 

Mi.  Bar.   Loe,  you'l  be  angry  now  !   heres   good  stuffe. 

[Re-enter  GOURSEY  and  BARNES.] 

M.  Gour.   How  now,  woman  ? 2  who  hath  wonne  the  game  ? 

Mi.  Gou.   No  body  yet. 

1  The  angel-noble  was  a  gold  coin  worth  from  a  third  to  half  a  sovereign  ;  the  royal  or  rose- 
noble,  ioj.  2  Q  i,  'women.' 
2  N 


546      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the   two       [sc. 

M.  Bar.   Your  wife's  the  fairest  for't.1 

Mi.  Bar.    I,  in  your  eye.  150 

Mi.  Gou.     How  do  you  meane  ? 

Mi.  Bar.    He  holds  you  fairer  for't  then  I. 

Mi.  Gou.   For  what,  forsooth  ? 

Mi.  Bar.    Good  gamster,  for  your  game. 

M.  Bar.   Well,  try  it  out ;  t'is  all  but  in  the  bearing.2  155 

Mi.  Bar.   Nay,  if  it  come  to  bearing,  shee'l  be  best. 

Mi.  Gou.   Why   you'r  as  good  a  bearer  as  the  rest. 

Mi.  Bar.   Nay,  thats  not  so ;   you  beare  one  man  too  many. 

Mi.  Gou.   Better  doe  so  then  beare  not  any. 

Mi.  Ba.   Beshrew  me,  but  my  wives  jestes  grow  too  bitter;    160 
Plainer  speeches  for  her  were  more  [ritjter  :  3 
Malice  lyes  inbowelled  in  her  tongue, 
And  new  hatcht  hate  makes  every  jest  a  wrong.  \Aside. ~\ 

Mi.  Go.   Looke  ye,  mistresse,  now  I  hit  yee. 

Mi.  Bar.   Why,  I,  you  never  use  to  misse  a  blot,2  165 

Especially  when  it  stands  so  faire  to  hit. 

Mi.  Gou.    How  meane  ye,  mistresse  Barnes  ? 

Mi.  Ba.   That  mistresse  Course's  in  the  hitting  vaine. 

Mi.  Gou.    I  hot*  your  man. 

Mi.  Bar.    I,  I,  my  man,  my  man  ;   but,  had  I  knowne,  170 

I  would  have  had  my  man  stood  neerer  home. 

Mi.  Gou.    Why,  had  ye  kept  your  man  in  his  right  place, 
I  should  not  then  have  hit  him  with  an  ase. 

Mis.  Bar.    Right,  by  the  Lord  !   a  plague  upon  the  bones ! 

Mi.  Gou.    And  a  hot  mischiefe  on  the  curser  too!  175 

M.  Bar.    How  now,  wife  ? 

M.  Gour.    Why,  whats  the  matter,  woman  ? 

Mi.  Gou.    It  is  no  matter :    I  am 

Mis.  Bar.    I,  you  are 

Mi.  Gou.    What  am  I  ?  180 

Mis.  Bar.    Why,  thats  as  you  will  be  ever. 

Mis.  Gou.    That's  every  day  as  good  as  Barneses  wife. 

Mi.  Bar.    And  better  too  :   then  what  needs  al  this  trouble  ? 
A  single  horse  is  worse  then  that  beares  double. 

1  Q  a,  far't.  2  A  term  of  the  game.  :i  So  l)y.     ytos.  better.  4  hit. 


i]  angry  women   of  Abington  547 

M.  Bar.    Wife,  go  to,  have  regard  to  that  you  say  ;  185 

Let  not  your  words  passe  foorth  the  vierge  of  reason, 
But  keep  within  the  bounds  of  modesty, 
For  ill  report  doth  like  a  bayliffe  stand, 
To  pound  the  straying  and  the  wit-lost  tongue, 

And  makes  it  forfeit  into  follies  hands.  190 

Well,  wife,  you  know  tis1  no  honest  part 
To  entertaine  such  guests  with  jestes  and  wronges  : 
What  will  the  neighbring  country  vulgar  say, 
When  as  they  heare  that  you  fell  out  at  dinner  ? 
Forsooth,2  they'l  caU  it  a  pot  quarrell  straight;  195 

The  best  they  1  name  it,  is  a  womans  jangling. 
Go  too,  be  rulde,  be  rulde. 

Mi.  Bar.    Gods  Lord,  be  rulde,  be  rulde ! 
What,  thinke  ye  I  have  such  a  babies  wit, 

To  have  a  rods  correction  for  my  tongue  ?  2OO 

Schoole  infancie;   I  am  of  age  to  speake, 
And  I  know  when  to  speake :  shall  I  be  chid 
For  such  a  3 

Mi.  Gou.    What  a  ?   nay,  mistresse,  speake  it  out ; 
I  scorne  your  stopt  compares  :  compare  not  me  205 

To  any  but  your  equals,  mistresse  Barnes. 

M.  Gou.    Peace,  wife,  be  quiet. 

M.  Bar.    O,  perswade,  perswade  !  - — 
Wife,  mistresse  Goursey,  shall  I  winne  your  thoughts 
To  composition  of  some  kind  effects  ?  210 

Wife,  if  you  love  your  credit,  leave  this  strife, 
And  come  shake  hands  with  mistresse  Goursey  heere. 

Mi.    Ba.    Shall  I  shake  hands  ?   let  her  go  shake  her  heeles ; 
She  gets  nor  hands,  nor  friendship  at  my  hands  : 
And  so,  sir,  while  I  live  I  will  take  heed,  215 

What  guests  I  bid  againe  unto  my  house. 

M.  Bar.    Impatient  woman,  will  you  be  so  stiffe 
In  this  absurdnes  ?4 

1  Dyce  reads,  'it  is';  but  probably  in  prov.  pron.    'know'  was  then,  as  frequently  now, 
a  dissyllable.  2  £)  2,  Forsvorb.  8  Q  2,  '  for  such  a  '  appended  to  line  202. 

4  y  2,  'in  this  absurdnes  '  appended  to  line  217. 


548       A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Mi.  Ba.    I  am  impatient  now  I  speake  ; 

But,  sir,  lie  tell  you  more  another  time  :  220 

Go  too,  I  will  not  take  it  as  I  have  done.  Exit. 

Afis.  Gou.    Nay,  she  might  stay  ;   I  will  not  long  be  heere 
To  trouble  her.      Well,  maister  Barnes, 
I  am  sorry  that  it  was  our  happes  to  day, 

To  have  our  pleasures  parted  with  this  fray:  225 

I  am  sorrie  too  for  all  that  is  amisse, 
Especially  that  you  are  moov'de  in  this. 
But  be  not  so,  tis  but  a  womans  Jarre, 
Their  tongues  are  weapons,  words  there  blowes  of  warre. 
'Twas  but  a  while  we  buffeted  you  saw,  230 

And  each  of  us  was  willing  to  withdraw  ; 
There  was  no  harme  nor  bloudshed  you  did  see  : 
Tush,  feare  us  not,  for  we  shall  well  agree. 
I  take  my  leave,  sir.  —  Come,  kinde  harted  man, 
That  speakes  his  wife  so  faire,  I,  now  and  than  ;  235 

I  know  you  would  not  for  an  hundreth  pound 
That  I  should  heare  your  voyces  churlish  sound  ; 
I  know  you  have  a  farre  more  milder  tune 
Then  'Peace,  be  quiet,  wife';   but  I  ha.c  June. 

Will  ye  go  home  ?    the  doore  directs  the  way  ;  240 

But,  if  you  will  not,  my  dutie  is  to  stay.  [£>//.] 

M.  Bar.    Ha,  ha  !    why,  heres  a  right  woman,  is  there  not  ? 
They  both  have  din'de,  yet  see  what  stomacks  they  have  ! 

M.  Gou.    Well,  maister  Barnes,  we  cannot  do  with  all  :  ' 
Let  us  be  friends  still.  245 

M.  Bar.    O,  maister  Goursey,  the  mettell  of  our  minds, 
Having  the  temper  of  true  reason  in  them, 
Aftoordes 2  a  better  edge  of  argument 
For  the  maintaine  of  our  familiar  loves 

Then  the  soft  leaden  wit  of  women  can  ;  250 

Wherefore  with  all  the  parts  of  neighbour  love 
I  impart3  my  selfe  to  maister  Goursey. 

M.  Gou.     And  with  exchange  of  love  I  do  receive  it  : 

1  cannot  help  it  withal.  2  Q  I,  '  Affborde.' 

8  So  <,)tos.     D\.  suggests  '</</  impart  ';    cf.  next  line. 


n]  angry   women   of  Abington  549 

Then  here  weel  part,  partners  of  two  curst  wives. 

M.  Ba.    Oh,  where  shall  wee  find  a  man  so  blest  that  is  not  ?  l 
But  come  ;  your  businesse  and  my  home  affaires  256 

Makes  me  deliver  that  unfriendly  worde 
Mongst  friends  —  farewell.2 

• 

M.  Gou.    Twentie  farewels,  sir. 

M.  Bar.    But  harke  ye,  maister  Goursey  ;  260 

Looke  ye  perswade  at  home  as  I  will  do  : 
What,  man  !   we  must  not  alwayes  have  them  foes. 

M.  Go.    If  I  can  helpe  it. 

M.  Bar.    God  helpe,  God  helpe ! 
Women  are  even  untoward  creatures  still.  Exeunt.    265 


[Scene  Second.      In  front  of  Barneses  Housed] 

Enter  PHILIP,  FRANCIS,  and  his  BOY,  from  bowling. 

Phil.    Come  on,  Franke  Goursey:   you  have  good  lucke  to  winne 
the  game. 

Fran.    Why,  tell  me,  ist  not  good,  that  never  playd  before  upon 
your  greene  ? 

Phil.    Tis  good,  but  that  it  cost  me  ten  good  crownes  ;  that  makes 
it  worse.3  6 

Fran.    Let  it  not  greeve  thee,  man  ;   come  ore  to  us ; 
We  will  devise  some  game  to  make  you  win 
Your  money  backe  againe,  sweet  Philip. 

Phil.    And  that  shall  be  ere  long,  and  if  I  live:  10 

But  tell  me,  Francis,  what  good  horses  have  yee, 
To  hunt  this  sommer  ? 

Fra.    Two  or  three  jades,  or  so. 

Phil.    Be  they  but  jades  ? 

Fran.    No,  faith;   my  wag  string  here  15 

Did  founder  one  the  last  time  that  he  rid, 
The  best  gray  nag  that  ever  I  laid  my  leg  over. 

Boy.    You  meane  the  flea  bitten  ? 

1  Note  the  anap;estic  swing.  2  £)tos.  append  1.  258  to  1.  257. 

1  Dycc  cuts  lines  I— 6  into  a  kind  of  blank  verse. 


550       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Fran.    Good  sir,  the  same. 

Boy.    And  was  the  same  the  best  that  ere  you  rid  on  ?  20 

Fran.    I,  was  it,  sir. 

Boy.    I  faith,  it  was  not,  sir. 

Fran.    No  !   where  had  I  one  so  good  ? 

Boy.    One  of  my  colour,  and  a  better  too. 

Fran.    One  of  your  colour  !   I  nere  remember  him  •,  25 

One  of  that  colour  ! 

Boy.    Or  of  that  complexion. 

Fran.    Whats  that  ye  call  complexion  in  a  horse  ? 

Buy.    The  colour,  sir. 

Fran.    Set  me  a  colour  on  your  jest,  or  I  will —  30 

Boy.    Nay,  good  sir,  hold  your  hands  ! 

Fran.    VVhat,  shal  we  have  it  ? 

Boy.    Why,  sir,  I  cannot  paint. 

Fran.    Well,  then,  I  can  ;  1 
And  I  shall  find  a  pensill  for  ye,  sir.  35 

Boy.    Then  I  must  finde  the  table,  if  you  do. 

Fran.    A  whoreson,  barren,  wicked  urchen  ! 

Boy.    Looke  how  you  chafe  !  you  would  be  angry  more, 
If  I  should  tell  it  you. 

Fran.    Go  to,  He  anger  ye,  and  if  you  do  not.  40 

Boy.    Why,  sir,  the  horse  that  I  do  meane 
Hath  a  leg  both  straight  and  cleane, 
That  hath  nor  spaven,  splint,  nor  flawe, 
But  is  the  best  that  ever  ye  saw  ; 

A  pretie  rising  knee,  O  knee  !  45 

It  is  as  round  as  round  may  be ; 
The  full  flanke  makes  the  buttock  round  : 
This  palfray  standeth  on  no  ground 
When  as  my  maister's  on  her  backe, 

If  that  he  once  do  say  but,  ticke;2  50 

And  if  he  pricke  her,  you  shall  see 
Her  gallop  amaine,  she  is  so  free ; 

1  Qtos.,  11.  33  and  34  as  one. 

'-'  l)y.,  qy.   'tacke'  ?      But,  of  course,  the  boy  uttered  the    '  tchick  '    with  which  one  urges 
a  horse. 


n]  angry  women   of  Abington  551 

And  if  he  give  her  but  a  nod, 

She  thinkes  it  is  a  riding  rod  ; 

And  if  hee'l  have  her  softly  go,  55 

Then  she  trips  it  like  a  doe  ; 

She  comes  so  easie  with  the  raine, 

A  twine  thred  turnes  her  backe  againe; 

And  truly  I  did  nere  see  yet 

A  horse  play  proudlier  on  the  bit :  60 

My  maister  with  good  managing 

Brought  her  first  unto  the  ring ; 1 

He  likewise  taught  her  to  corvet, 

To  runne,  and  suddainlie  to  set ; 

Shee's  cunning  in  the  wilde  goose  race,  65 

Nay,  shee's  apt  to  every  pace ; 

And  to  proove  her  colour  good, 

A  flea,  cnamourd  of  her  blood, 

Digd  for  chanels  in  her  neck, 

And  there  made  many  a  crimson  speck:  70 

I  thinke  theres  none  that  use  to  ride 

But  can  her  pleasant  trot  abide  ; 

She  goes  so  even  upon  the  way, 

She  will  not  stumble  in  a  day  ; 

And  when  my  maister —  75 

Fra.    What  do  I  ? 

Boy.    Nay,  nothing,  sir. 

Phil.    O,  fie,  Franke,  fie  ! 
Nay,  nay,  your  reason  hath  no  justice  now, 

I  must  needs  say  ;   perswade  him  first  to  speake,  80 

Then  chide  him  for  it! — Tell  me,  prettie  wag, 
Where  stands  this  prawncer,  in  what  inne  or  stable  ? 
Or,  hath  thy  maister  put  her  out  to  runne, 
Then,  in  what  field,  what  champion2  feeds  this  courser, 
This  well  paste,  bonnie  steed  that  thou  so  praisest  ?  85 

Boy.    Faith,  sir,  I  thinke  — 

1  Taught  her  to  tread  the  ring,  —  to  perform  various   movements  in  different  directions 
within  a  ring  marked  out  on  a  piece  of  ground.       Dyce. 

2  champaign. 


552       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Fran.    Villaine,  what  do  yee  thinke  ? 

Boy.    I  thinke  that  you,  sir,  have  bene  askt  by  many, 
But  yet  I  never  heard  that  yee  tolde  any. 

Phil.    Well,  boy,  then  I  will  adde  one  more  to  many,  90 

And  aske  thy  maister  where  this  jennet  feeds.  — 
Come,  Franke,  tell  me,  nay,  prethie,  tell  me,  Franke, 
My  good  horse-maister,  tell  me  —  by  this  light, 
I  will  not  steale  her  from  thee  ;   if  I  do, 
Let  me  be  held  a  felone  to  thy  love.  95 

Fran.    No,  Phillip,  no. 

Phil.    What,  wilt  thou  we  [a]  re  a  point 1  but  with  one  tag  ? 
Well,  Francis,  well,  I  see  you  are  a  wag. 

Enter   COMES. 

Com.    Swounds,  where  be  these  timber  turners,  these  trowle  the 
bowles,  these  greene  men,  these —  100 

Fran.    What,  what,  sir  ? 

Comes.    These  bowlers,  sir. 

Fra.    Well,  sir,  what  say  you  to  bowlers  ? 

Coo.    Why,  I  say  they  cannot  be  saved. 

Fra.    Your  reason,  sir  ?  105 

Coo.    Because  they  throw  away  their  soules  at  every  marke. 

Fra.    Their  soules  !   how  meane  ye  ? 

Phi.    Sirra,  he  meanes  the  soule2  of  our  bowle. 

Fra.    Lord,  how  his  wit  holdes  bias  like  a  bowle  ! 

Coo.    Well,  which  is  the  bias  ?  no 

Fra.    This  next  to  you.3 

Coo.    Nay,  turne  it  this  way,  then  the  bowle  goes  true. 

Boy.    Rub,  rub  ! 

Coo.    Why  rub  ? 

Boy.    Why,  you  overcast  the  marke,  and  misse  the  way.  1 1  5 

Coo.    Nay,  boy,  I  use  to  take  the  fairest  of  my  play. 

Phi.    Dicke  Coomes,  me  thinkes  thou  art4  very  pleasant: 
When5  gotst  thou  this  mirrie  humor? 

Coo.  .  In  your  fathers  seller,  the  merriest  place  in  th'  house. 

1  A  tagged  lace  used  to  attach  the  hose  or  breeches  to  the  doublet.      Dyce. 

2  sole,  or  oblate  surface.  *  Q  i,   'th'art. ' 

8  Qtos.,  11.    1 10  and  1 1  I  as  one.  6  Dy.,  qy.   «  Wher.' 


n]  angry   women   of  Abington  553 

Phi.    Then  you  have  bene  carowsing  hard  ?  1 20 

Coo.  Yes,  faith,  'tis  our  custome  when  your  fathers  men  and 
we  meete. 

Phi.    Thou  art  very  welcome  thether,  Dicke. 

Coo.  By  God,  I  thanke  ye,  sir,  I  thanke  ye,  sir  :  by  God,  I  have 
a  quart  of  wine  for  ye,  sir,  in  any  place  of  the  world.  There  shall 
not  a  servingman  in  Barkeshire  tight  better  for  ye  then  I  will  do, 
if  you  have  any  quarrel!  in  hand  :  you  shall  have  the  maidenhead  of 
my  new  sword  ;  I  paide  a  quarters  wages  for't,  by  Jesus.  128 

Phi.    Oh,  this  meate  failer  Dicke  ! 

How  well  t'as  made  the  apparell  of  his  wit,  130 

And  brought  it  into  fashion  of  an  honor  !  — 
Prethe,1  Dicke  Coomes,  but  tell  me  how  thou  doost  ? 

Coo.    Faith,  sir,  like  a  poorc  man  at  service. 

Phi.    Or  servingman. 

Coo.    Indeede,  so  called  by  the  vulgar.  135 

Phi.    Why,  where  the  devill  hadst  thou  that  word  ? 

Coo.  Oh,  sir,  you  have  the  most  eloquenst  ale  in  all  the2  world; 
our  blunt  soyle  affoordes  none  such. 

Fra.  Phillip,  leave  talking  with  this  drunken  foolc.  —  Say,  sirra, 
where's  my  father?  140 

Coo.  '  Aiarrie,  I  thanke  ye  for  mv  verie  good  cheere.'  —  '  O  Lord, 
it  is  not  so  much  worth.'  — l  You  see  I  am  bolde  with  ye.'  — 
1  Indeed,  you  are  not  so  bolde  as  welcome ;  I  pray  yee,  come 
oftner.'  —  'Truly,  I  shall  trouble  ye.'  —  All  these  ceremonies  are 
dispatcht  betweene  them,  and  they  are  gone.  145 

Fra.    Are  they  so  ? 

Coo.    I,  before  God,  are  they. 

Fra.    And  wherefore  came  not  you  to  call  me,  then  ? 

Coo.    Because  I  was  loth  to  change  my  game. 

Fra.    What  game  ?  150 

Coo.    You  were  at  one  sort  of  bowles,  as  I  was  at  another. 

Phi.    Sirra,  he  meanes  the  buttery  bowles  of  beere. 

Coo.    By  God,  sir,  we  tickled  it. 

Fra.    Why,  what  a  swearing  kccpes  this  drunken  asse  !  — 
Canst  thou  not  say  but  sweare  at  every  word  ?  155 

1  52  2>  pbetbe.  2  Q  i,  'in  the.' 


554       ^  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Phi.    Peace,  do  not  marre  his  humour,  prethie,  Franke. 

Coo.    Let    him    alone ;    hee's    a    springall,  he    knovves  not   what 
belongs  to  an  oath. 

Fra.    Sirra,  be  quiet,  or  I  doe  protest  — 

Coo.    Come,  come,  what  doe  you  protest?  160 

Fra.    By  heaven,  to  crack  your  crowne. 

Coo.    To  crack  my  crowne  !      I  lay  ye  a  crowne  of  that, 
Lay  it  downe,  and  ye  dare ; 

Nay,  sbloud,  ile  venter  a  quarters  wages  of  that. 
Crack  my  crowne,  quotha  ! 1  165 

Fra.    Will 2  ye  not  yet  be  quiet  ?   will  ye  urge  me  ? 

Coo.    Urge  yee,  with  a  pox  !   who  urges  ye  ? 
You  might  have  said  so  much  to  a  clowne, 
Or  one  that  had  not  been  ore  the  sea  to  see  fashions  : 
I  have,  I  tell  ye  true;  and  I  know  what  belongs  to  a  man.          170 
Crack  my  crowne,  and  ye  can. 

Fra.    And  I  can,  ye  rascall  !  [Offers  to  beat  bim.~] 

Phi.    Hold,  haire  braine,  holde  !   dost  thou  not  see  hees  drunke  ? 

Coo.    Nay,  let  him  come  : 

Though  he  be  my  masters  sonne,  I  am  my  masters  man,  175 

And  a  man  is  a  man  in  any  ground  of  England. 
Come,  and  he  dares,  a  comes  upon  his  death  : 
I  will  not  budge  an  inche,  no,  sbloud,  will  I  3  not. 

Fran.    Will  ye  not  ? 

Phi.    Stay,  prithie,  Franke.  —  Coomes,  dost  thou  heare  ?          180 

Coo.    Heare  me  no  heares  : 
Stand  away,  Ile  trust  none  of  you  all. 
If  I  have  my  backe  against  a  cart  wheele, 
I  would  not  care  if  the  devill  came. 

Phi.    Why,  ye  foole,  I  am  your  friend.  185 

Coo.    Foole  on  your  face  !    I  have  a  wife. 

Fra.    Shees  a  whore,  then. 

Coo.    Shees  as  honest  as  Nan  Lawson. 

Phi.    What  she  ? 

Coo.    One  of  his  whores.  190 

1  11.   162-165,  167-171,  174-176,  181-184,  printed  as  verse  in  the  originals. 

2  ^  I,  Wirl.  3  Not  in  Q  i. 


n]  angry   women   of  Abington  555 

Phi.    Why,  hath  he  so  many  ? 

Coo.    I,  as  many  as  there  be  churches  in  London. 

Phil.    Why,  thats  a  hundred  and 'nine. 

Boy.    Faith,  he  lyes  a  hundred. 

Phi.    Then  thou  art  a  witnes  to  nine.  195 

Boy.    No,  by  God,  He  be  witnes  to  none. 

Coo.    Now  doe  I  stand  like  the  George  l  at  Colbrooke. 

Boy.    No,  thou  standst  like  the  Bull l  at  S.  Albones. 

Coo.    Boy,  ye  lye  the  homes.2 

Boy.    The  bul's  bitten  ;   see  how  he  buts  !  2OO 

Phil.    Comes,  Comes,  put  up,3  my  friend  and  thou  art  friends. 

Coo.    He  heare  him  say  so  first. 

Phil.    Franke,  prethie  doe  ;  be  friends,  and  tell  him  so. 

Fra.    Goe  to,  I  am. 

Boy.    Put  up,  sir,  and  ye  be  a  man,  put  up.  205 

Coorn.    I  am  easily  perswaded,  boye. 

Phil.    Ah,  ye  mad  slave  ! 

Coomes.    Come,  come,  a  couple  of  whore-masters  I   found  yee, 
and  so  I  leave  yee.  Exit. 

Phil.    Loe,  Franke,  doost  thou  not  see  hees  drunke,  210 

That  twits  thee4  with  thy  disposition  ? 

Fra.    What  disposition  ? 

Phil.    Nan  Lawson,  Nan  Lawson. 

Fran.    Nay,  then  — 

Phil.    Goe  to,  ye  wag,  tis  well  :  215 

If  ever  yee  get  a  wife,  i  faith  He  tell. 
Sirra,  at  home  we  have  a  servingman  ; 
Hees5  not  hurnord  bluntly  as  Coomes  is, 
Yet  his  condition  6  makes  me  often  merrie : 

He  tell  thee,  sirra,  hees  a  fine  neate  fellow,  22O 

A  spruce  slave;   I  warrant  ye,  heele"  have 
His  cruell  8  garters  crosse  about  the  knee, 

1  Names  of  taverns.      Ellis. 

2  H.  and    K.,   "yee  lye  —  the  Homes,"   as  if  a  tavern  name.       But  Qto».,  as  above, — 
"  You  are  lying  about  the  horns,  I  have  none." 

8  your  sword.  6  quality,  humour. 

4  So  Dyce.  £)tos.,  me,  —  my.  7  Dy.  suggests  'he  will.' 

6  Dy.  suggests  '  He  is  '  ;    but  qy.  '  Coo-urns  '?  8  crewel. 


556       A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

His  woollen  hose  as  white  as  the  driven  snowe, 

His  shooes  dry  leather  neat,  and  tyed  with  red  ribbins, 

A  nose-gay  bound  with  laces  in  his  hat,  225 

Bridelaces,  sir,  in's  hat  —  an  all  greene  hat,1 

Greene  coverlet  for  such  a  grasse  greene  wit. 

'  The  goose  that  graseth  on  the  greene,'  quoth  he, 

'  May  I  eate  on  when  you  shall  buried  be  !  ' 

All  proverbes  is  his  speech,  hee's  proverbs  all.  230 

Fra.    Why  speakes  he  proverbs  ? 

Phi.    Because  he  would  speake  truth, 
And  proverbes,  youle  confesse,  are  olde  said  sooth. 

Fra.    I  like  this  well,  and  one  day  He  see  him  : 
But  shall  we  part  ?  235 

Phil.    Not  yet,  He  bring  you  somewhat  on  your  way, 
And  as  we  goe,  betweene  your  boy  and  you 
He  know  where  that  [brave]  2  praunser  stands  at  levery. 

Fra.    Come,  come,  you  shall  not. 

Phil.    I  faith,  I  wil.  Exeunt.      240 

[Scene  Third. 3     Barneses  Garden^] 

Enter  MASTER  BARNES  and  his  WIFE. 

M.  Bar.    Wife,  in  my  minde  to  day  you  were  too  blame, 
Although  my  patience  did  not  blame  ye  for  it : 
Me  thought  the  rules  of  love  and  neighbourhood 
Did  not  direct  your  thoughts;   all  indirect4 

Were  your  proceedings  in  the  entertaine  5 

Of  them  that  I  invited  to  my  house. 
Nay,  stay,  I  doe  not  chide,  but  counsell,  wife, 
And  in  the  mildest  manner  that  I  may  : 
You  neede  not  viewe  me  with  a  servants  eye, 

Whose  vassaile  5  sences  tremble  at  the  looke  IO 

Of  his  displeased  master.      O  my  wife, 

1  The  originals  run,  "  Bridelaces  sir  his  hat,  and  all  greene  hat";  so  Dyce.      Ellis,  silently, 
"  Bridelaces,  sir  —  and  his  hat  all  green."      It  may  have  been  written,  "  Bridelaces,  sir.      His 
hat  ?  — an  all,"  etc.      Coomes  parades  his  wedding  trophies. 

2  So  Dy.   from  Q  I  ;  but  not  in  Q  2. 

8  E.,  Act  II.  Sc.   i.  4  H.  and  E.,  'indiscreet.'  6  So  Dy.  ;    Qtos.,  'vassailes.' 


in]  angry  women   of  Abington  557 

You  are  my  selfe  !   when  selfe  sees  fault  in  selfe, 

Selfe  is  sinne  obstinate,  if  selfe  amend  not  : 

Indeede,  I  sawe  a  fault  in  thee  my  selfe, 

And  it  hath  set  a  foyle  upon  thy  fame,  15 

Not  as  the  foile  doth  grace  the  diamond. 

Mi.  Bar.    What  fault,  sir,  did  you  see  in  me  to  day  ? 

M.  Ear.    O,  doe  not  set  the  organ  of  thy  voice 
On  such  a  grunting  key  of  discontent ! 

Doe  not  deforme  the  beautie  of  thy  tongue  2O 

With  such  mishapen  answercs.      Rough  wrathfull  words 
Are  bastards  got  by  rashnes  in  the  thoughts  : 
Faire  demeanors  are  vertues  nuptiall  babes, 
The  off-spring  of  the  well  instructed  soule; 

O,  let  them  call  thee  mother,  then,  my  wife !  25 

So  seeme  not  barren  of  good  courtesie. 

Mi.  Bar.   So  ;   have  ye  done  ? 

M.  Bar.   I,  and  I  had  done  well, 
If  you  would  do  what  I  advise  for  well. 

Mi.  Bar.  Whats  that  ?  30 

M.  Bar.  Which  is,  that  you  would  be  good  friendes 
With  mistresse  Goursey. l 

Mi.  Bar.     With  mistresse  Goursey  ! 

M.  Bar.   I,  sweet  wife. 

Mis.  Bar.  Not  so,  sweet  husband.  35 

M.  Ear.   Could  you  but  shew  me  any  grounded  cause. 

Mis.  Bar.   The  grounded  cause  I  ground  because  I  wil  not. 

M.  Bar.   Your  will  hath  little  reason,  then,  I  thinke. 

Mi.  Bar.   Yes,  sir,  my2  reason  equalleth  my  will. 

M.  Bar.   Lets  heare  your  reason,  for  your  will  is  great.  40 

Mi.  Bar.   Why,  for  I  will  not. 

M.  Ear.   Is  all  your  reason  c  for  I  will  not,'  wife  ? 
Now,  by  my  soule,  I  held  yee  for  more  wise, 
Discreete,  and  of  more  temperature  in  sence, 

Then  in  a  sullen  humour  to  affect3      •  45 

That  womans4  will  borne,  common,  scholler  phrase: 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  timely  married  girle, 

1  11.  31  and  32  as  one  in  ytos.          2  ^  2»  ""•  3  Q  2>  tff«t.  *  Q  r,  'womens.' 


558       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

That  newly  left  to  call  her  mother  mam, 

Her  father  dad,  but  yesterday  come  from 

1  Thats  my  good  girle,  God  send  thee  a  good  husband  ! '  50 

And  now  being  taught  to  speake  the  name  of  husband, 

Will,  when  she  would  be  wanton  in  her  will, 

If  her  husband  aske  her  why,  say  '  for  I  will.' 

Have  I  chid  men  for  1  unmanly  choyse, 

That  would  not  fit  their  yeares  ?   have  I  seene  thee  55 

Pupell  2  such  greene  yong  things,  and  with  thy  counsell 

Tutor  their  wits  ?   and  art  thou  now  infected 

With  this  disease  of  imperfection  ? 

I  blush  for  thee,  ashamed  at  thy  shame. 

Ml.  Bar.   A  shame  on  her  that  makes  thee  rate  me  so !  60 

M.  Bar.   O  black  mouth'd  rage,  thy  breath  is  boysterous, 
And  thou  makst  vertue  shake  at  this  high  storme  ! 
Shees3  of  good  report;   I  know  thou  knowst  it. 

Ml.  Bar.  She  is  not,  nor  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That  thou  dost  love  her,  therefore  thinkst  her  so ;  65 

Thou  bearst  with  her,  because  she  beares  with  thee. 
Thou  mayst  be  ashamed  to  stand  in  her  defence  : 
She  is  a  strumpet,  and  thou  art  no  honest  man 
To  stand  in  her  defence  against  thy  wife. 

If  I  catch  her  in  my  walke,  now,  by  Cockes4  bones,  70 

lie  scratch  out  both  her  eyes. 

M.  Bar.   O  God  ! 

Mi.  Bar.   Nay,  never  say  '  O  God  '  for  the  matter : 
Thou  art  the  cause ;   thou  badst  her  to  my  house, 
Onely  to  bleare  the  eyes  of  Goursey,  didst  not  ?  75 

But  I  wil  send  him  word,  I  warrant  thee, 
And  ere  I  sleepe  to[o]  ;   trust  upon  it,  sir.  Exit. 

M.  Bar.   Me  thinkes  this  is  a  mighty  fault  in  her; 
I  could  be  angry  with  her:   O,  if  I  be  so, 

I  shall  but  put  a  linke  unto  a  torche,  80 

And  so  give  greater  light  to  see  her  fault. 
He  rather  smother  it  in  melancholly  : 
Nay,  wisedome  bids  me  shunne  that  passion; 

1  !<iy-   '  ^or  ""•'    Dyce.        2  discipline.        3  Read,  tor  the  metre,  '  She  is. '    Dyce.         4  God's. 


in]  angry   women   of  Abington  559 

Then  I  will  studie  for  a  remedy. 

I  have  a  daughter,  —  now,  heaven  invocate,  85 

She  be  not  of  like  spirit  as  her  mother! 

If  so,  sheel  be  a  plague  unto  her  husband, 

If  that  he  be  not  patient  and  discreet, 

For  that  I  hold  the  ease  of  all  such  trouble. 

Well,  well,  I  would  my  daughter  had  a  husband,  90 

For  I  would  see  how  she  could  demeane  her  selfe 

In  that  estate;  it  may  be,  ill  enough,— 

And,  so  God  shall  help  me,  well  remembred  now ! 

Franke  Goursey  is  his  fathers  sonne  and  heyre, 

A  youth  that  in  my  heart  I  have  good  hope  on  ;  95 

My  sences  say  a  match,  my  soule  applaudes 

The  motion  :   O,  but  his  lands  are  great, 

Hee  will  looke  high  ;  why,  I  will  straine  my  selfe 

To  make  her  dowry  equall  with  his  land. 

Good  faith,  and  twere  a  match,  twould  be  a  meanes  100 

To  make  their  mothers  friends.     He  call  my  daughter, 

To  see  how  shees  disposde  to  marriage.  — 

Mall,  where  are  yee  ? 

Enter  MALL. 

Mall.  Father,  heere  I  am. 

M.  Bar.   Where  is  your  mother?  105 

Mai.  I  saw  her  not,  forsooth,  since  you  and  she 
Went  walking  both  together  to  the  garden. 

M.  Ba.   Dost  thou  heare  me,  girle  ?      I  must  dispute  with  thee. 

Mai.   Father,  the  question,  then,  must  not  be  hard, 
For  I  am  very  weake  in  argument.  1 10 

M.  Bar.   Well,  this  it  is  ;  I  say  tis  good  to  marry. 

Mai.   And  this  say  I,  tis  not  good  to  marry. 

M.  Bar.    Were  it  not  good,  then  all  men  would  not  marry  ; 
But  now  they  doe. 

Mai.   Marry,  not  all;   but  it  is  good  to  marry.  1 15 

M.  Bar.    Is  it  both  good  and  bad  ?   how  can  this  be  ? 

Mai.   Why,  it  is  good  to  them  that  marry  well ; 
To  them  that  marry  ill,  no  greater  hell. 

M.  Bar.   If  thou  mightst  marry  well,  wouldst  thou  agree  ? 


560      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Mall.   I  cannot  tell ;   heaven  must  appoint  for  me.  i  20 

M.  Bar.   Wench,  I  am  studying  for  thy  good,  indeed. 

Mall.   My  hopes  and  dutie  wish  your  thoughts  good  speed. 

M.  Bar.    But  tell  me,  wench,  hast  thou  a  minde  to  marry  ? 

Mall.   This  question  is  too  hard  for  bashfulnes  ; 
And,  father,  now  ye  pose  my  modestie.  125 

I  am  a  maide,  and  when  ye  aske  me  thus, 
I  like  a  maide  must  blush,  looke  pale  and  wan, 
And  then  looke  pale l  againe  ;  for  we  change  colour 
As  our  thoughts  change.      With  true  fac'd  passion 
Of  modest  maidenhead  I  could  adorne  me,  130 

And  to  your  question  make  a  sober  cursie 
And  with  close  clipt  civilitie  be  silent ; 
Or  els  say  'no,  forsooth,'  or  'I,  forsooth.' 
If  I  said  'no,  forsooth,'  I  lyed,  forsooth  : 

To  lye  upon  my  selfe  were  deadly  sinne,  135 

Therefore  I  will  speake  truth,  and  shame  the  divell. 
Father,  when  first  I  heard  you  name  a  husband, 
At  that  same  very  name  my  spirits  quickned. 
Dispaire  before  had  kild  them,  they  were  dead  : 
Because  it  was  my  hap  so  long  to  tarry,  140 

I  was  perswaded  I  should  never  marry  ; 
And,  sitting  sowing,  thus  upon  the  ground 
I  fell  in  traunce  of  meditation  ; 
But  comming  to  my  selfe,  'O  Lord,'  said  I, 

'Shall  it  be  so  ?    must  I  unmarryed  dye  ?  '  145 

And  being  angry,  father,  farther  said, 
'Now,  by  saint  Anne,  I  will  not  dye  a  maide!' 
Good  faith,  before  I  came  to  this  ripe  groath, 
I  did  accuse  the  labouring  time  of  sloath  : 

Me  thought  the  yeere  did  run  but  slow  about,  150 

For  I  thought  each  yeare  ten  I  was  without. 
Being  foureteene  and  toward  the  other-  yeare, 
Good  Lord,  thought  I,  fifteen.e  will  nere  be  heere ! 
For  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  that  then 
Prittie  maides  were  fit  for  handsome  men  :  155 

1  Dy.  suggests   'red'  ;   H.  and  E.  adopt.  -  ^  I ,  '  tot her  yeere.' 


m]  angry   women   of  Abington  561 

Fifteene  past,  sixeteene,  and  seventeene  too, 

What,  thought  I,  will  not  this  husband  do  ? 

Will  no  man  marry  me  ?   have  men  forsworne 

Such  beauty  and  such  youth  ?   shall  youth  be  worne, 

As  rich  mens  gownes,  more  with  age  then  use?  160 

Why,  then  I  let  restrained  l  fansie  loose, 

And  bad  it  gaze  for  pleasure;   then  love  swore  me 

To  doe  what  ere  my  mother  did  before  me ; 

Yet,  in  good  faith,  I  was2  very  loath, 

But  now  it  lyes  in  you  to  save  my  oath  :  165 

If  I  shall  have  a  husband,  get  him  quickly, 

For  maides  that  weares  corke3  shooes  may  step  awry. 

M.  Bar.    Beleeve  me,  wench,  I  doe  not  repprehend4  thee, 
But  for  this  pleasant  answere  do  commend  thee. 
I  must  confesse,  love  doth  thee  mighty  wrong,  170 

But  I  will  see  thee  have  thy  right  ere  long ; 
I  know  a  young  man,  whom  I  holde  most  fit 
To  have  thee  both  for  living  and  for  wit : 
I  will  goe  write  about  it  presentle. 

Mall.    Good  father,  do.  [Exif  BARNES.] 

O  God,  me  thinkes  I  should        175 
Wife  it  as  fine  as  any  woman  could  ! 
I  could  carry  a  porte  to  be  obayde, 
Carry  a  maistering  eye  upon  my  maide, 
With  'Minion,  do  your  businesse,  or  He  make  yee/ 
And  to  all  house  authoritie  be  take  me.  1 80 

O  God,  would  I  were  married  !   be  my  troth, 
But  if  I  be  not,  I  sweare  He  keepe  my  oath. 

Ent.  Mi.  BA. 

\_Ml.  BaJ\    How  now,  minion,  wher  have  you  bin  gadding  ? 

Mall.    Forsooth,  my  father  called  me  forth  to  him. 

Mi.  Bar.    Your  father!  and  what  said  he  too  ye,  I  pray  ?        185 

Mall.    Nothing,  forsooth. 

Mi.  Bar.    Nothing!   that  cannot  be;   something  he  said. 

1  y  2,  rntaitifd.  -  I)y.,   H.,   K.   'have  beetle.'  3  See  p.  464  n  (F.   B.,  vii.   74). 

*  ytos.,  <ifi[>t(bcnd,  —  but  certainly  Mall  had  spoken  with  sufficient  plainness.       Dyce. 
2  u 


562      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Mall.    I,  somthing  that  as  good  as  nothing  was. 

Ml.  Bar.    Come,  let  me  heare  that  somthing  nothing,  then. 

Mai.    Nothing  but  of  a  husband  for  me,  mother.  190 

Mi.  Bar.    A  husband!   that  was  something:   but  what  husband? 

Mall.    Nay,  faith,  I  know  not,  mother:   would  I  did  ! 

Mis.  Bar.     I,  'would  ye  did'!    i  faith,  are  ye  so  hasty  ? 

Mall.    Hasty,  mother  !   why,  how  olde  am  I  ? 

Mis.  Ba.    To  yong  to  marry. 

Mai.  Nay,  by  the  masse,  ye  lie.  195 

Mother,  how  olde  were  you  when  you  did  marry  ? 

Mis.  Ba.    How  olde  so  ere  I  was,  yet  you  shall  tarry. 

Mall.    Then  the  worse  for  me.      Hark,  mother,  harke  ! 
The  priest  forgets  that  ere  he  was  a  clarke  : 

When  you  were  at  my  yeeres,  He  holde  my  life,  200 

Your  minde  was  to  change  maidenhead  for  wife. 
Pardon  me,  mother,  I  am  of  your  minde, 
And,  by  my  troth,  I  take  it  but  by  kinde.1 

Mis.  Bar.    Do  ye  heare,  daughter  ?   you  shal  stay  my  leasure. 

Mall.    Do  you  heare,  mother  ?   would  you  stay  fro  pleasure    205 
When  ye  have  minde  to  it  ?      Go  to,  there's  no  wrong 
Like  this,  to  let  maides  lye  alone  so  long  : 
Lying  alone  they  muse  but  in  their  beds 
How  they  might  loose  their  long  kept  maiden  heads. 
This  is  the  cause  there  is  so  many  scapes,  210 

For  women  that  are  wise  will  not  lead  apes 
In  hell:2  I  tel  yee,  mother,  I  say  true;  — 
Therefore,  come,  husband,  maiden  head,  adew  !  Exit. 

Mis.  Bar.    Well,  lustie  guts,  I  mcane  to  make  ye  stay, 
And  set  some  rubbes  in  your  mindes  smothest  way.3  215 

Enter  PHILIP. 
Phi.    Mother  — 

Mi.  Ba.    How  now,  sirra,  where  have  yc  bin  walking? 
Phil.    Over  the  meades,  halfe  way  to  Milton,4  mother, 

1  nature.  2  The  fate  of  old  maids;   cf.  Shakesp.   T.  rf  S.  II.   i.  8  Q  I,  nay. 

4  Little  Milton  is  about  eight  miles  northeast  of  Abingdon,  across  the  fields.     Great  Milton 
is  about  a  mile  farther  north. 


in]  angry   women   of  Abington  563 

To  beare  my  friend  Franke  Goursey  company. 

Mi.  Ba.    Wher's  your  blew  coat,1  your  sword  and  buckler,  sir? 
Get  you  such  like  habite  for  a  servingman,  221 

If  you  will  waight  upon  the  brat  of  Goursey. 

Phil.    Mother,  that  you  are  moov'd,  this  maks  me  wonder, 
When  I  departed  I  did  leave  yee  friends  : 
What  undigested  jarre  hath  since  betided  ?  225 

A/If.  Bar.    Such  as  almost  doth  choake  thy  mother,  boy, 
And  stifles  her  with  the  conceit  of  it ; 
I  am  abusde,  my  sonne,  by  Gourseys  wife. 

Phil.    By  mistresse  Goursey  ? 

Mi.  Bar.    Mistresse  flurt,  yon2  foule  strumpet,  230 

Light  a  love,  short  heeles  !      Mistresse  Goursey 
Call  her  againe,  and  thou  wert  better  no. 

Phil.    O  my  deare  mother,3  have  some  patience  ! 

Mis.  Bar.    I,  sir,  have  patience,  and  see  your  father 
To  rifle  up  the  treasure  of  my  love,  235 

And  play  the  spend-thrift  upon  such  an  harlot ! 
This  same  will  make  me  have  patience,  will  it  not  ? 

Phili.    This  same  is  womens  most  impatience  : 
Yet,  mother,  I  have  often  heard  ye  say 

That  you  have  found  my  father  temperate,  240 

And  ever  free  from  such  affections. 

Mi.  Bar.    I,  till4  my  too  much  love  did  glut  his  thoughts, 
And  make  him  seek  for  change. 

Phi.    O,  change  your  minde  ! 
My  father  beares  more  cordiall  love  to  you.  245 

Mi.  B.    Thou  liest,  thou  liest,  for  he  loves  Gourseys  wife, 
Not  me. 

Phil.    Now,  I  sweare,  mother,  you  are  much  too  blame ; 
I  durst  be  sworne  he  loves  you  as  his  soule. 

1  The  common  dress  of  a  servingman.      Dyce. 

2  £>tos.,  'you,'  —  which,  perhaps,  is  the  right  reading,  some  word  having  dropt  out  after  it 
Qy.  thus ;  — 

"  Mis.  Bar.     Mistresse  flurt,  you  mean, 
Foule  strumpet,  light  a  loue,  short  heeles  !   Mistresse  Goursey 
Call  her,"  etc.  Dyce.       H.  and  K.,  4yea.' 
*Q^,  more.  «  y  I,  tell. 


564      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Mi.  Bar.    Wilt  thou  be  pampered  by  affection  ?  250 

Will  nature  teach  thee  such  vilde1  perjurie  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  sworne,  I,  forsworne,2  carelesse  boy  ? 
And  if  thou  swearst,  I  say  he  loves  me  not. 

Phil.    He  loves  ye  but  too  well,  I  sweare, 
Unlesse  ye  knew  much  better  how  to  use  him.  255 

Mi.  Bar.    Doth  he  so,  sir  ?   thou  unnatural!  boy  ! 
'  Too  well,'  sayest  thou  ?   that  word  shall  cost  thee3  somwhat : 
O  monstrous!   have  I  brought  thee  up  to  this? 
'  Too  well '  !      O  unkinde,  wicked,  and  degenerate, 
Hast  thou  the  heart  to  say  so  of  thy  mother  ?  260 

Well,  God  will  plague  thee  fort,  I  warrant  thee  : 
Out  on  thee,  villaine,  fie  upon  thee,  wretch  ! 
Out  of  my  sight,  out  of  my  sight,  I  say  ! 

Phil.    This  ayre  is  pleasant,  and  doth  please  me  well, 
And  here  I  will  stay.  265 

Mi.  Bar.    Wilt  thou,  stubborne  villaine  ? 

Enter  M.    BAR. 

M.  Bar.    How  now,  whats  the  matter  ? 

Mi.  Bar.    Thou  setst  thy  sonne  to  scoffe  and  mocke  at  me : 
1st  not  sufficient  I  am  wrongd  of  thee, 

But  he  must  be  an  agent  to  abuse  me  ?  270 

Must  I  be  subject  to  my  cradle  too  ? 

0  God,  O  God  amend  it !  [Exit.] 
M.  Ba.    Why,  how  now,  Phillip  ?   is  this  true,  my  sonne  ? 

Phil.    Deare  father,  she  is  much  impatient : 

Nere  let  that  hand  assist  me  in  my  need,  275 

If  I  more  said  then  that  she  thought  amisse 
To  thinke  that  you  were  so  licentious  given  ; 
And  thus  much  more,  when  she  inferd  it  more, 

1  swore  an  oath  you  lov'd  her  but  too  well  : 

In  that  as  guiltie  I  do  hold  my  selfe,  280 

Now  that  I  come  to  more  considerate  triall : 

I  know  my  fault ;   I  should  have  borne  with  her  : 

Blame  me  for  rashnesse,  then,  not  for  want  of  dutie. 

1  vile.  a  ytos.,  forlorne.  8  y  I,  the. 


in]  angry   women   of  Abington  565 

M.  Ba.    I  do  absolve  thee;  and  come  hether,  Phillip: 
I  have  writ  a  letter  unto  master  Goursey,  285 

And  I  will  tell  thee  the  contents  thereof; 
But  tell  me  first,  thinkst  thou  Franke  Goursey  loves  thee  ? 

Phil.    If  that  a  man  devoted  to  a  man, 
Loyall,  religious  in  loves  hallowed  vowes, 

If  that  a  man  that  is  soule  laboursome  290 

To  worke  his  ovvne  thoughts  to  his  friends  delight, 
May  purchase  good  opinion  with  his  friend, 
Then  I  may  say,  I  have  done  this  so  well, 
That  I  may  thinke  Franke  Goursey  loves  me  well. 

M.  Ba.    Tis  well ;  and  I  am  much  deceived  in  him,  295 

And  if  he  be  not  sober,  wise,  and  valliant. 

Phi.    I  hope  my  father  takes  me  for  thus  wise, 
I  will  not  glew  my  selfe  in  love  to  one 
That  hath  not  some  desert  of  vertue  in  him  : 

What  ere  you  thinke  of  him,  beleeve  me,  father,  300 

He  will  be  answerable  to  your  thoughts 
In  any  quallity  commendable. 

M.  Bar.    Thou  chearst  my  hopes  in  him;   and,  in  good  faith, 
Thoust l    made  my  love  complete  unto  thy  friend  : 
Phillip,  I  love  him,  and  I  love  him  so.  305 

I  could  affoorde  him  a  good  wife  I  know. 

Phi.    Father,  a  wife  ! 

M.  Bar.    Phillip,  a  wife. 

Phil.    I  lay  my  life,  my  sister. 

M.  Bar.    I,  in  good  faith.  310 

Phil.    Then,  father,  he  shall  have  her ;  he  shall,  I  sweare. 

M.  Bar.    How  canst  thou  say  so,  knowing  not  his  minde  ? 

Phi.    All  is  one  for  that ;   I  will  goe  to  him  straight. 
Father,  if  you  would  seeke  this  seaven  yeares  day, 
You  could  not2  finde  a  fitter  match  for  her;  315 

And  he  shall  have  her,  I  sweare  he  shall ; 
He  were  as  good  be  hang'd  as  once  deny  her. 
I  faith,  He  to  him.3 

M.  Bar.    Hairebraine,  hairebraine,  stay  ! 

1  (,)  i,   TbauH  a  Q  i,  no.  8  £)  2  appends  this  to  the  preceding  line. 


566      A  pleasant   Comedie  of  the  two       [sc. 

As  yet  we  do  not  know  his  fathers1  minde  :  320 

Why,  what  will  master  Goursey  say,  my  sonne, 

If  we  should  motion  it  without  his  knowledge  ? 

Go  to,  hees  a  wise  and  discreet  gentleman, 

And  that  expects  2  from  me  all  honest  parts  ; 

Nor  shall  he  faile  his  expectation;  325 

First  I  doe  meane  to  make  him  privy  to  it : 

Phillip,  this  letter  is  to  that  effecT:. 

Phil.  Father,  for  Gods  3  sake  send  it  quickly,  then  : 
He  call  your  man.  —  What,  Hugh!   wheres  Hugh,  there,  ho? 

M.  Ear.   Phillip,  if  this  would  proove  a  match,  330 

It  were  the  only  meanes  that  could  be  found 
To  make  thy  mother  frends  with  Mist[resse]   Goufrseyj. 

Phil.    How,  a  match  !      lie  warrant  ye,  a  match. 
My  sister's  faire,  Franke  Goursie  he  is  rich; 

Her4  dowrie  too  will  be  sufficient;  335 

Franke's  yong,5  and  youth  is  apt  to  love ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  my  sisters  maiden  head 
Standes  like  a  game  at  tennis,  —  if  the  ball 
Hit  into  the  hole,  or  hazard,  farewell  all ! 

Ma.  Ear.    How  now,  where's  Hugh?  340 

\_Enter  NICHOLAS.! 

Phil.   Why,  what  doth  this  proverbial  with  us  ? 
Why,  where's  Hugh  ? 

M.  Bar.    Peace,  peace. 

Phil.   Where's  Hugh,  I  say  ? 

M.  Bar.    Be  not  so  hasty,  Phillip.  345 

Phil.   Father,  let  me  alone, 
I  doe  it  but  to  make  my  selfe  some  sport. 
This  formall  foole,  your  man,  speakes  naught  but  proverbs, 
And  speake  men  what  they  can  to  him,  hee'l  answere 
With  some  rime,*5  rotten  sentence,  or  olde  saying,  350 

Such  spokes  "  as  the  ancient  of  the  parish  use, 

1  Q  2,  father.  2  £)  2,  refects.  s  Q  i ,   '  Gads. '  4  Qtos. ,  Hit. 

5  yy->   "  Franke  he  is  young  "  ?   compare  the  preceding  line  but  one.      Dyce. 

6  ytos. ,  no  comma.    £)).,  'rime-rotten.'  "  sfrucbe  :  rare. 


in]  angry   women   of  Abington  567 

With,  'neighbour,  tis  an  olde  proverbe  and  a  true, 

Goose  giblets  are  good  meate,  old  sacke  better  then  new ' ; 

Then  saies  another,  'neighbour,  that  is  true'; 

And  when  each  man  hath  drunke  his  gallon  round,  355 

A  penny  pot,  for  thats  the  olde  mans  gallon, 

Then  doth  he  licke  his  lips,  and  stroke  his  beard 

That's  glewed  together  with  his  slavering  droppes 

Of  ycsty  ale,  and  when  he  scarce  can  trim 

His  gouty  ringers,  thus  hee'l  phillip  it,  360 

And  with  a  rotten  hem  say,  *  hey,  my  hearts, 

Merry  go  sorrie  !    cocke  and  pye,  my  heartes  ! ' 

But  then  their  saving  penny  proverbe  comes, 

And  that  is  this,  '  they  that  will  to  the  wine, 

Berlady  l  mistresse,  shall  lay  theyr  penny  to  mine.'  365 

This  was  one  of  this  penny-fathers2  bastards, 

For,  on  my  lyfe,  he  was  never  begot 

Without  the  consent  of  some  great  proverb-monger. 

M.  Bar.   O,  ye  are  a  wag. 

Phil.   Well,  now  unto  my  busines.  370 

Swounds,  will  that  mouth,  thats  made  of  olde  sed  sawes 
And  nothing  else,  say  nothing  to  us  now? 

Xich.  O  master  Phillip,  forbeare ;  you  must  not  leape  over  the 
style  before  you  come  at  it ;  haste  makes  waste  ;  softe  fire  makes 
sweete  malt ;  not  too  fast  for  falling  ;  there's  no  hast  to  hang  true 
men.  376 

Phil.  Father,  we  ha'te,  ye  see,  we  ha'te.  Now  will  I  see  if  my 
memorie  will  serve  for  some  proverbs  too.  O,  —  a  painted  cloath 
were  as  wel  worth  a  shilling  as  a  theefe  woorth  a  halter;  well,  after 
my  heartie  commendations,  as  I  was  at  the  making  hereof;  so  it 
is,  that  I  hope  as  you  speed,  so  you're  sure  ;  a  swift  horse  will  tire, 
but  he  that  trottes  easilie  will  indure.  You  have  most  learnedlv 
proverbde  it,  commending  the  vertue  of  patience  or  forbearance,  but 
yet,  you  know,  forbearance  is  no  quittance. 

\ich.  I  promise  yee,  maister  Philip,  you  have  spoken  as  true  as 
steele.  386 

Phil.    Father,  theres  a  proverbe  well  applied. 

1  By  our  lady.  2  miser. 


568       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Nich.  And  it  seemeth  unto  me,  I,  it  seemes  to  me,  that  you, 
maister  Phillip,  mocke  me  :  do  you  not  know,  qui  mocat  mocabitur  ? 
mocke  age,  and  see  how  it  will  prosper.  390 

Phil.   Why,  ye  whoresen  proverb-booke  bound  up  in  follio, 
Have  yee  no  other  sence  to  answer  me 
But  every  worde  a  proverbe  ?   no  other  English  ? 
Well,  lie  fulfill  a  proverb  on  thee  straight. 

Nich.   What  is  it,  sir?  395 

Phil.   He  fetch  my  fist  from  thine  eare. 

Nich.   Beare  witnesse  he  threatens  me  ! 

Phil.   Father,  that  same  is  the  cowards  common  proverbe.  — 
But  come,  come,  sirra,  tell  me  where  Hugh  is.  399 

Nich.  I  may,  and  I  will ;  I  need  not  except  I  list ;  you  shall  not 
commaund  me,  you  give  me  neither  meate,  drinke,  nor  wages ;  I 
am  your  fathers  man,  and  a  man's  a  man,  and  a  have  but  a  hose 
on  his  head;  do  not  misuse  me  so,  do  not;  for  though  he  that  is 
bound  must  obay,  yet  he  that  will  not  tarrie,  may  *  runne  away,  so 
he  may.  405 

M.  Bar.   Peace,  Nicke,  He  see  he  shall  use  thee  well ; 
Go  to,  peace,  sirra  :   here,  Nicke,  take  this  letter, 
Carrie  it  to  him  to  whom  it  is  directed. 

Nich.   To  whom  is  it  ? 

M.  Ear.   Why,  reade  it  :   canst  thou  read  ?  410 

Nich.   Forsooth,  though  none  of  the  best,  yet  meanly. 

M.  Bar.  Why,  dost  thou  not  use  it  ? 

Nich.  Forsooth,  as  use  makes  perfectnes,  so  seldome  scene  is 
soone  forgotten. 

M.  Bar.   Well  said:   but  goe  ;   it  is  to  master  Goursey.  415 

Phil.   Now,  sir,  what  proverbe  have  ye  to  deliver  a  letter  ? 

Nich.  What  need  you  to  care  ?  who  speakes  to  you  ?  you  may 
speake  when  you  are  spoken  to,  and  keep  your  winde  to  coole  your 
pottage.  Well,  well,  you  are  my  maisters  sonne,  and  you  looke 
for  his  lande  ;  but  they  that  hope  for  dead  mens  shooes,  may  hap  to 
go  barefoote  :  take  heed  ;  as  soone  goes  the  yong  sheep  to  the  pot 
as  the  olde.  I  pray  God  save  my  maysters  life,  for  sildome  comes 
the  better  !  423 

1  Q  I,  ma. 


iv]  angry   women   of  Abington  569 

Phil.    O,  he  hath  given  it  me  !      Farewell,  proverbes. 

Nick.    Farewell,  frost.1  425 

Phil.    Shal  I  fling  an  old  shoe  after  ye  ? 

Nich.    No  ;  you  should  say,  God  send  faire  weather  after  me  ! 

Phil.    I  meane  for  good  lucke. 

Nich.    A  good  lucke  on  ye  !  Exit. 

M.  Bar.    Alas,  poore  foole,  he  uses  all  his  wit !  430 

Phillip,  in  faith2  this 'mirth  hath  cheered  thought, 
And  cussend  it  of  his  right  play  of  passion. 
Goe  after  Nick,  and,  when  thou  thinkst  hees  there, 
Go  in  and  urge  to  that  which  I  have  writ  : 

He  in  these  meddowes  make  a  cerckling  walke,  435 

And  in  my  meditation  conjure  so, 
As  that  same3  fend  of  thought,  selfe-eating  anger, 
Shall  by  my  spels  of  reason  4  vanish  quite  : 
Away,  and  let  me  heare  from  thee  to  night. 

Phil.    To  night !   yes,  that  you  shall :   but  harke  ye,  father  ;    440 
Looke  that  you  my  sister  waking  keepe, 
For  Franke  I  sweare  shall  kisse  her  ere  I  sleepe.  Exeunt. 

[Scene  Fourth.     'The  Court-yard  of  Master  Gourseys 
House  at  MiltonJ] 

Enter  FRANKE  and  BOY. 

Frank.    I  am  very  dry  with  walking  ore  the  greene.  — 
Butler,  some  beere  !  —  Sirra,  call  the  butler. 

Bo.  Nay,  faith,  sir,  we  must  have  some  smith  to  give  the  butler 
a  drench,  or  cut  him  in  the  forehead,  for  he  hath  got  a  horses 
desease,  namely  the  staggers ;  to  night  hees  a  good  huswife,  he 
reeles  al  that  he  wrought  to  day  ;  and  he  were  good  now  to  play  at 
dice,  for  he  castes5  excellent  well.  7 

Fran.    How  meanst  thou  ?   is  he  drunke  ? 

1  As    who  should   say,    "Your   company    is   indifferent  to   me."      So  in    Alotber   Bombie, 
"  Farewell    frost,  my  fortune  naught   me  cost,"  and  Ray's  l'rc,<vcrbi  :    "F.f.,  Nothing  got  nor 
nothing  lost. " 

2  ^  I,  faith  in.  8  !«ito8->  some-  4  52tos->  treaion.  5  vomits. 


570       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Boy.  I  cannot  tell ;  but  I  am  sure  hee  hath  more  liquor  in  him 
then  a  whole  dicker1  of  hydes ;  hees  sockt  throughly,  i  faith.  10 

Fran.    Well,  goe  and  call  him  ;  bid  him  bring  me  drinke. 

Boy.    I  will,  sir.  Exit. 

Fran.    My  mother  powtes,  and  will  looke  merrily 
Neither  upon  my  father  nor  on  me : 

He  saies  she  fell  out  with  mistresse  Barnes  to  day;  15 

Then  I  am  sure  they'l  not  be  quickly  friends. 
Good  Lord,  what  kinde  of  creatures  women  are  ! 
Their  love  is  lightly  wonne  and  lightly  lost ; 
And  then  their  hate  is  deadly  and  extreame: 

He  that  doth  take  a  wyfe  betakes  himselfe  2O 

To  all  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the  world. 
Now  her  disquietnes  doth  grieve  my  father, 
Greeves  me,  and  troubles  all  the  house  besides.  — 
What,  shall  I   have  some  drinke?      \Horn  sounded  within\ — How 

now  ?  a  home  ! 

Belike  the  drunken  slave2  is  fallen  asleepe,  25 

And  now  the  boy  doth  wake  him  with  his  home. 

\_Enter  BOY.] 

How  now,  sirra,  wheres  the  butler  ? 

Boy.  Mary,  sir,  where  he  was  even  now,  a  sleepe;  but  I  wakt 
him,  and  when  he  wakt,  he  thought  he  was  in  mayster  Barnses 
buttery,  for  he  stretcht  himselfe  thus,  and  yauning  said,  '  Nicke, 
honest  Nicke,  fill  a  fresh  bowle  of  ale  ;  stand  to  it,  Nicke,  and 
thou  beest  a  man  of  Gods  making,  stand  to  it' ;  and  then  I  winded 
my  home,  and  hees  horne-mad.  33 

Enter  HODGE. 

Hodg.  Boy,  hey!  ho,  boy!  and  thou  beest  a  man,  draw. — O, 
heres  a  blessed  mooneshine,  God  be  thanked  !  —  Boy,  is  not  this 
goodly  weather  for  barley  ?  36 

Boy.  Spoken  like  a  right  maulster,  Hodge  :  but  doost  thou  heare  ? 
thou  art  not  drunke. 

Hod.    No,  I  scorne  that,  i  faith. 

Boy.s    But  thy  fellow  Dicke  Coomes  is  mightily  drunke.  40 

1  A  quantity  often  :  one-twentieth  ofa  last.         2  So  ^  2.     Dy.,  etc.,  '  knave.'        8  QtoS->  But. 


iv]  angry   women   of  Abington  571 

Hod.  Drunke !  a  plague  on  it,  when  a  man  cannot  carrie  his 
drinke  well !  sbloud,  He  stand  to  it. 

Boy.    Hold,  man  ;  see  and  thou  canst  stand  first. 

Hodge.  Drunke  !  hees  a  beast,  and  he  be  drunke  ;  theres  no  man 
that  is  a  sober  man  will  be  drunk  ;  hees  a  boy,  and  he  be  drunke. 

BOY.    No,  hees  a  man  as  thou  art.  46 

Hodge.  Thus  tis  when  a  man  will  not  be  ruled  by  his  friends  :  I 
bad  him  keepe  under  the  lee,  but  he  kept  downe  the  weather  two 
bowes ;  I  tolde  him  hee  would  be  taken  with  a  plannet,1  but  the 
wisest  of  us  all  may  fall.  50 

B.    True,  Hodge.  Boy  trip  him. 

Hod.  Whope  !  lend  me  thy  hand,  Dicke,  I  am  falne  into  a  wel ; 
lend  me  thy  hand,  I  shall  be  drowned  else. 

Boy.    Hold  fast  by  the  bucket,  Hodge. 

Hodg.    A  rope  on  it !  55 

Boy.    I,  there  is  a  rope  on  it ;  but  where  art  thou,  Hodge  ? 

Hodge.    In  a  well  ;   I  prethie,  draw  up. 

Boy.    Come,  give  up  thy  bodie ;   wind  up,  hoyst. 

Hodg.    I  am  over  head  and  eares. 

Boy.    In  all,  Hodge,  in  all.  60 

Fran.    How  loathsome  is  this  beast  mans  shape  to  me, 
This  mould  of  reason  so  unreasonable!2 
Sirra,  why  doost  thou  trip  him  downe,  seeing  hees  drunke  ? 

Boy.    Because,  sir,  I  would  have  drunkards  cheape.3 

Fran.    How  mcane  ye?  65 

Boy.  Why,  they  say  that,  when  any  thing  haih  a  fall  it  is  cheape  •, 
and  so  of  drunkards. 

Fran.  Go  to,  helpe  him  up  [Knocking  without^:  but,  harke,  who 
knockes  ?  [Bov  goes  to  the  gate,  and  returns.  ~\ 

Bo.  Sir  heeres  one  of  maister  Barnsies  men  with  a  letter  to  my 
olde  maister.  71 

Fran.    Which  of  them  is  it  ? 

Boy.    They  call  him  Nicholas,  sir. 

Fran.    Go,  call  him  in.  [Exit  BOY.] 

1  Struck  hy  a  tramp  vessel  ? 

2  Cf.  Ham/.  I.  ii.,  "A  beast  that  wants  discourse  of  reason,"   and  III.  i.,  "the  mould  of 
form."  3  O   i,  trkaf'f. 


572       A  pleasant    Cornea1  ie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Enter  COOMES. 

Coom.    By  your  leave,  ho  !      How  now,  young  maister,  how  1st  ? 

Fran.  Looke  ye,  sirra,  where  your  fellow  lies;  76 

Hees  in  a  fine  taking,  is  he  not  ? 

Coom.    Whope,  Hodge  !   where  art  thou,  man,  where  art  thou  ? 

Hodge.    O,  in  a  well. 

Co.    In  a  well,  man  !   nay,  then,  thou  art  deepe  in  understanding. 

Fran.    I,  once  to  day  you  were  almost  so,  sir.  81 

Coom.  Who,  I  !  go  to,  young  maister,  I  do  not  like  this  humor 
in  ye,  I  tell  ye  true;  give  every  man  his  due,  and  give  him  no  more: 
say  I  was  in  such  a  case  !  go  to,  tis  the  greatest  indignation  that 
can  be  offered  to  a  man  ;  and,  but  a  mans  more  godlier  given,  you 
were  able  to  make  him  sweare  out  his  heart  bloud.  What  though 
that  honest  Hodge  have  cut  his  finger  heere  ?  or,  as  some  say,  cut  a 
feather?  what  thogh  he  be  mump,  misled,  blind,  or  as  it  were?  tis 
no  consequent  to  me  :  you  know  I  have  drunke  all  the  ale-houses 
in  Abington  drie,  and  laide  the  tappes  on  the  tables  when  I  had 
done  :  sbloud,  lie  challenge  all  the  true  rob-pots  in  Europe  to  leape 
up  to  the  chinne  in  a  barrell  of  becre,  and  if  I  cannot  drinke  it  down 
to  my  foote  ere  I  leave,  and  then  set  the  tap  in  the  midst  of  the 
house,  and  then  turne  a  good  turne  on  the  toe  on  it,  let  me  be 
counted  nobodie,  a  pingler,1  —  nay,  let  me  be2  bound  to  drinke 
nothing  but  small  beere  seven  yeares  after ;  and  I  had  as  leefe  be 
hanged.  Enter  NICHOLAS.  97 

Fran.  Peace,  sir,  I  must  speake  with  one.  —  Nicholas,  I  think, 
vour  name  is. 

Nich.    True  as  the  skinne  betweene  your  browes.  100 

Fran.    Well,  how  doth  thy  maister  ? 

Nich.    Forsooth,  live,  and  the  best  doth  no  better. 

Fran.    Where  is  the  letter  he  hath  sent  me  ? 

Nich.    Ecce  signum  !   heere  it  is. 

Fran.    Tis  right  as  Phillip  said,  tis  a  fine  foole  \Asidi\^. —      105 
This  letter  is  directed  to  my  father; 
He  carrie  it  to  him.  —  Dick  Coomes,  make  him  drinke.  Exit. 

1  Perhaps  the  word  squints  at  two  contemporary  significations  :   cart-horse  ;   squeamish  eater. 

2  Not  in       i. 


v]  angry   women   of  Abington  573 

Coom.    I,  He  make  him  drunke,1  and  he  will. 

Nicb.    Not  so,  Richard;   it  is  good  to  be  merrie  and  wise.       109 

Dick?  Well,  Nicholas,  as  thou  art  Nicholas,  welcome  ;  hut  as 
thou  art  Nicholas  and  a  hoonc  companion,  ten  times  welcome. 
Nicholas,  give  me  thy  hand  :  shall  we  be  merrie  ?  and  wee  shall, 
say  but  we  shall,  and  let  the  first  word  stand. 

Nicb.  Indeed,  as  long  lives  the  merrie  man  as  the  sad;  an  ownce 
of  debt  will  not  pay  a  pound  of  care.  1 1  5 

Coom.    Nay,  a  pound  of  care  will  not  pay  an  ownce  of  debt. 

Nicb.    Well,  tis  a  good  horse  never  stumbles:   but  who  lies  here? 

Coom.  Tis  our  Hodge,  and  I  thinke  he  lies  asleep  :  you  made 
him  drunk  at  your  house  to  day  ;  but  He  pepper  some  of  you  fort. 

Nic.  I,  Richard,  I  know  youle  put  a  man  over  the  shooes,  and  if 
you  can  ;  but  hees  a  foole  wil  take  more  then  wil  do  him  good. 

Coom.  Sbloud,  ye  shall  take  more  then  will  doe  yec  good,  or  He 
make  ye  clap  under  the  table.  123 

Nich.  Nay,  I  hope,  as  I  have  temperance  to  forbeare  drinke,  so 
have  I  patience  to  endure  drinke  :  He  do  as  company  doth  ;  tor  when 
a  man  doth  to  Rome  come,  he  must  do  as  there  is  done.  126 

Coomes.  Ha,  my  resolved  Nicke,  frolagozene  !  3  Fill  the  potte, 
hostessc  ;  swounes,  you  whore!  Harry  Hooke's  a  rascall.  Helpe 
me  but  carry  my  fellow  Hodge  in,  and  weele  crushe  it,  i  faith. 

Exeunt. 


[Scene  Fifth.     In  front  of  Gourseys  Housed] 

Enter  PHILLIP. 

Phil.    By  this,  I  thinke,  the  letter  is  delivered, 
And  twill  be  shortly  time  that  I  step  in, 
And  wooe  their  favours  for  my  sisters  fortune  : 
And  yet  I  need  not ;   she  may  doe  as  well, 

But  yet  not  better,  as  the  case  doth  stand  5 

Betwcene  our  mothers  -,   it  may  make  them  friends; 

1  O   i ,  '  drinke. '  -  ^   I ,   Nicb. 

:t  C't.    Du.,  -vro/ijt  xijn,  'to  be  jolly,'  and    Ht-ywood   and  Drome,  Lane.   H^iuba,  "what, 
all  lustkk,  all  froligozene. "  Neiv  Eng.  Die.    Q  2  reads  '  Nicke  Frolagozene  '  K.  '  Nick  jfo-via/.' 


574       ^  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Nay,  I  would  sweare  that  she  would  doe  as  well, 

Were  she  a  stranger  to  one  quality, 

But  they  are  so  acquainted,  theil  nere  part. 

Why,  she  will  floute  the  devill,  and  make  blush  IO 

The  boldest  face  of  man  that  ever  man  saw ; 

He  that  hath  best  opinion  of  his  wit, 

And  hath  his  braine  pan  fraught  with  bitter  jestes 

Or  of  his  owne,  or  stolne,  or  how  so  ever, 

Let  him  stand  nere  so  high  in  his  owne  conceite,  15 

Her  wit's  a  sunne  that  melts  him  downe  like  butter, 

And  makes  him  sit  at  table  pancake  wise, 

Flat,  flat,  [God  knowes]  *  and  nere  a  word  to  say  ; 

Yet  sheele  not  leave  him  then,  but  like  a  tyrant 

Sheele  persecute  the  poore  wit-beaten  man,  20 

And  so  bebang  him  with  dry  bobs  and  scoffes, 

When  he  is  downe,  most  cowardly,  good  faith, 

As  I  have  pittied  the  poore  patient. 

There  came  a  farmers  sonne  a  wooing  to  her, 

A  proper  man,  well  landed  too  he  was,  25 

A  man  that  for  his  wit  need  not  to  aske 

What  time  a  yeere  twere  good  to  sow  his  oates 

Nor  yet  his  barley,  no,  nor  when  to  reape, 

To  plowe  his  fallowes,  or  to  fell  his  trees, 

Well  experienst  thus  each  kinde  of  way ;  30 

After  a  two  monthes  labour  at  the  most, 

And  yet  twas  well  he  held  it  out  so  long, 

He  left  his  love,  she  had  so  laste  his  lips 

He  could  say  nothing  to  her  but  'God  be  with  yee '  ! 

Why,  she,  when  men  have  din'd  and  call  for  cheese,  35 

Will  straight  maintaine  jests  bitter  to  disgest; 

And  then  some  one  will  fall  to  argument, 

Who,  if  he  over  master  her  with  reason, 

Then  sheele  begin  to  buftet  him  with  mockes. 

Well,  I  doe  doubt  Frances  hath  so  much  spleene,  40 

Theil  nere  agree  ;   but  I  will  moderate. 

By  this  time  tis  time,  I  thinke,  to  enter  : 

1  O:nittc  1  in  (,)  2. 


vi]  angry   women   of  Abington  575 

This  is  the  house ;   shall  I  knocke  ?   no ;   I  will  not 

Waite  while  *  one  comes  out  to  answere ; 

He  in,  and  let  them  be  as  bolde  with  us.  Exit.      45 

[Scene  Sixth.     A  Room  in  Gourseys  Housed] 

Enter  MASTER  GOURSEY,  reading  a  letter. 

M.  Gour.    If  that  they  like,  her  dowry  shall  be  equall 
To  your  sonnes  wealth  or  possibility  : 
It  is  a  meanes  to  make  our  wives  good  friendes, 
And  to  continue  friendship  tiuixt  us  two? 

Tis  so,  indeed  :   I  like  this  motion,  5 

And  it  hath  my  consent,  because  my  wife3 
Is  sore  infected  and  hart  sick  with  hate ; 
And  I  have  sought  the  Galen  of  advice, 
Which  oneley  tels  me  this  same  potion 
To  be  most  soveraigne  for  her  sicknes  cure.  10 

Enter  FRANKE  and  PHILLIP. 

Hecre  comes  my  sonne,  conferring  with  his  friend. — 
Fraunces,  how  do  you  like  your  friends  discourse  ? 
I  know  he  is  persuading  to  this  motion. 

Fra.    Father,  as  matter  that  befits  a  friend, 
But  yet  not  me,  that  am  too  young  to  marry.  15 

M.  Gou.    Nay,  if  thy  minde  be  forward  with  thy  yeares, 
The  time  is  lost  thou  tarriest.      Trust  me,  boy,3 
This  match  is  answerable  to  thy  birth  ; 
Her  bloud  and  portion  give  each  other  grace; 

These  indented  lines  promise  a  sum,  20 

And  I  do  like  the  valew  :   if  it  hap 

1  until.  —  Ought  not  the  passage  to  stand  as  follows  ?  — 

"  no,  I  will  not ; 
Nor  waite  while  one  comes  out  to  answere  me,"    Dyce. 

2  i>  a,  to. 

8  11.  6-10,  printed  as  prose,  Q  ^.      So  also  11.  I  --22,  save  that  the  initial  letter  of  each  line, 
except  22,  is  capitalized. 


576       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two       [sc. 

Thy  liking  to  accord  to  my  consent, 

It  is  a  match.      Wilt  thou  goe  see  the  maide  ? 

Fra.    Nere.      Trust  me,  father,  the  shape  1  of  marriage, 
Which  I  doe  see  in  others,  seeme[s]2  so  severe,  25 

I  dare  not  put  my  youngling  liberty 
Under  the  awe  of  that  instruction  ; 
And  yet  I  graunt  the  limmits  of  free  youth 
Going  astray  are  often  restrainde  by  that. 

But  mistresse  wedlocke,  to  my  scholler  thoughts,  30 

Will  be  too  curst,  I  feare.      O,  should  she  snip 
My  pleasure  ayming  minde,  I  shall  be  sad, 
And  sweare,  when  I  did  marry,  I  was  mad  ! 

M.  Gour.    But,  boy,  let  my  experience  teach  thee  this  — 
Yet,  in  good  faith,  thou  speakst  not  much  amisse ;  —  35 

When  first  thy  mothers  fame  to  me  did  come, 
Thy  grandsire  thus  then  came  to  me  his  sonne, 
And  even  my  words  to  thee  to  me  he  said, 
And  as  to  me  thou  saist  to  him  I  said, 

But  in  a  greater  huffe  and  hotter  bloud,—  40 

I  tell  ye,  on  youthes  tip-toes  then  I  stood  : 
Saies  he  (good  faith,  this  was  his  very  say), 
4  When  I  was  yong,  I  was  but  reasons  foole, 
And  went  to  wedding  as  to  wisdomes  schoole ; 

It  taught  me  much,  and  much  I  did  forget,  45 

But,  beaten  much,  by  it  I  got  some  wit ; 
Though  I  was  shackled  from  an  often  scoute,3 
Yet  I  would  wanton  it  when  I  was  out ; 
Twas  comfort,  old  acquaintance  then  to  meete, 
Restrained  liberty  attainde  is  sweet.'  50 

Thus  said  my  father  to  thy  father,4  sonne, 
And  thou  maist  doc  this  too,5  as  I  have  done. 

Phi.    In  faith,  good  counsel!,  Franke  :   what  saist  thou  to  it  ? 

Fra.    Phillip,  what  should  I  say  ? 

Phil.    Why,  cyther  I  or  no.  55 

Fra.    O,  but  which  rather  ? 

1  H.  and  E.,  gratuitously,   'shackles.'  2  Qtos. ,  secme. 

:i  excess;    cf.  Scotch  '  scouth  '  ;    free  swing.  *  (,)   I,  fathers.  5  Qtos->  '"• 


vi]  angry   women   of  Abington  577 

Phil.    Why,  that  which  was  persuaded  by  thy  father. 

Fra.    Thats  I,  then,1  I:   (),  should  it  fall  out  ill! 
Then  I,  for  I  am  guilty  of  that  ill,  — 
He  not  be  guilty,  no.  60 

Phi.    What,  backeward  gone! 

Fra.    Phillip,  no  whit  backward  ;   that  is,  on. 

Phi.    On,  then. 

Fra.    O,  stay  ! 

Phil.    Tush,  there  is  no  good  lucke  in  this  delay  :  65 

Come,  come,  late  commers,  man,  are  shent. 

Fra.    Heigh  ho,  I  feare  I  shall  repent ! 
Well,  which  wave,  Phillip?2 

Phi.    Why,  this  way. 

Fra.  Canst  thou  tell, 

And  takest  upon  thee  to  be  my  guide  to  hell  ? —  70 

But  which  way,  father  ? 

M.  Gour.  That  way. 

Fran.    I,  you  know  ; 

You  found  the  way  to  sorrow  long  agoe. 
Father,  God  boye  ye:3  you  have  sent  your  sonne 
To  seeke  on  earth  an  earthly  day  of  doome,  75 

Where  I  shall  be  adjudged,4  alackc  the  ruthe, 
To  penance  for  the  follies  of  my  youth  ! 
Well,  I  must  goe,  but,  by  my  troth,  my  minde 
Is  not  love  capable  to5  that  kinde. 

(),  I  have  lookt  upon  this  mould  of  men,  80 

As  I  have  done  upon  a  lyons  den  ! 
Praised  I  have  the  gallant  beast  I  saw, 
Yet  wisht  me  no  acquaintance  with  his  pawe : 
And  must  I  now  be  grated  with  them  ?   well, 

Yet  I  may  hap  to  proove  a  Daniell ;  85 

And,  if  I  doe,  sure  it  would  make  me  laugh, 
To  be  among  wilde  beastes  and  yet  be  safe. 
Is  there  a  remedy  to  abate  their  rage  ? 
Yes,  many  catch  them,  and  put  them  in  a  cage. 
I,  but  how  catch  them  ?    marry,  in  your  hand  90 

1  <,)  I,  than.        '*  ytos.,  Franke.  8  be  wi'  ye.        *  i*  2,  'judged.'       6  Dy.;    qy.,   'unto.' 


578      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Carrie  me  foorth  a  burning  fire  brand, 

For  with  his  sparkling  shine,  olde  rumor  sales, 

A  fire  brand  the  swiftest  runner  fraies  : 

This  I  may  doe  ;   but,  if  it  proove  not  so, 

Then  man  goes  out  to  seeke  his  adjunct  woe.  95 

Phillip,  away  !   and,  father,  now  adew  ! 

In  quest  of  sorrow  I  am  sent  by  you. 

M.  Gou.    Returne  the  messenger  of  joy,  my  sonne. 

Fran.    Sildome  in  this  world  such  a  worke  is  done. 

Phi.    Nay,  nay,  make  hast,  it  will  be  quicklie  night.  100 

Fra.    Why,  is  it  not  good  to  wooe  by  candle  light  ? 

Phil.    But,  if  we  make  not  haste  theile  be  abed. 

Fran.    The  better,  candels  out  and  curtans  spred. 

Exeunt  [FRANCIS   and  PHILLIP]  . 

M.  Gour.    I  know,  though  that  my  sons  years  be  not  many, 
Yet  he  hath  wit  to  wooe  as  well  as  any.  105 

Here  comes  my  wife  :   I  am  glad  my  boy  is  gone 

Enter  MISTRESSE   GOURSEY. 

Ere  she  came  hether.  —  How  now,  wife  ?   how  1st  ? 
What,  are  ye  yet  in  charity  and  love 
With  mistresse  Barnes  ? 

Mi.  Gou.    With  mistris  Barnes  !   why  inistris  l  Barnes,  I  pray  ? 

M.  Gou.    Because  she  is  your  neighbour  and—  ill 

Mi.  Gou.    And  what  ? 

And  a  jealous  slandering  spitefull  queane  she  is, 
One  that  would  blur  my  reputation 

With  her  approbrious  mallice,  if  she  could.  115 

She  wrongs  her  husband,  to  abuse  my  fame  : 
Tis  knowne  that  I  have  lived  in  honest  name 
All  my  life  time,  and  bin  your  right  true  wife. 

M.  Gour.    I  entertaine  no  other  thought,  my  wife, 
And  my  opinion's  sound  of  your  behaviour.  I  2O 

Mis.  Gou.     And  my  behaviour  is  as  sound  as  it; 
But  her  ill  speeches  seekes  to  rot  my  credit, 
And  eate  it  with  the  worme  of  hate  and  mallice. 

1  Q  I ,  maister. 


vi]  angry   women   of  Abington  579 

M.  Gou.    Why,  then,  preserve  it  you  by  patience. 

Mi.  Gou.    By  patience  !   would  ye  have  me  shame  my  selfe, 
And  cussen  my  selfe  to  beare  her  injuries?  126 

Not  while  her  eyes  be  open  will  I  yeelde 
A  word,  a  letter,  a  sillables  valew, 
But  equall  and  make  even  her  wrongs  to  me 
To  her  againe.  130 

M.  Gou.    Then,  in  good  faith,  wife,  ye  are  more  to  blame.     . 

Mi.  Gou.    Am  I  too  blame,  sir  ?   pray,  what  letters  this  ? 

\Snatcbes  the  letter.] 

M.  Gou.    There  is  a  dearth  of  manners  in  ye,  wife, 
Rudelie  to  snatch  it  from  me.      Give  it  me. 

Mi.  Gou.    You  shall  not  have  it,  sir,  till  I  have  read  it.  135 

M.  Gou.    Give  me  it,  then,  and  I  will  read  it  to  you. 

Ali.  Gou.    No,  no,  it  shall  not  need  :   I  am  a  scholler 
Good  enough  to  read  a  letter,  sir. 

M.  Gou.    Gods  passion,  if  she  knew  but  the  contents, 
Sheele  secke  to  crosse  this  match  !   she  shall  not  read   it.  — \Aade^\ 
Wife,  give  it  me;   come,  come,  give  it  me.  141 

Mi.  Gou.    Husband,  in  very  deed,  you  shall  not  have  it. 

M.  Gou.    What,  will  you  moove  me  to  impatience,  then  ? 

Mi.  Gou.    Tut,  tell  not  me  of  your  impatience  ; 
But  since  you  talke,  sir,  of  impatience,  145 

You  shall  not  have  the  letter,  by  this  light, 
Till  I  have  read  it ;   soule,  ile  burne  it  first ! 

M.  Gou.    Go  to,  ye  move  me,  wife;  give  me  the  letter; 
In  troth,  I  shall  growe  angry,  if  you  doe  not. 

Mi.  Gou.    Grow  to  the  house  top  with  your  anger,  sir  !  150 

Nere  tell  me,  I  care  not  thus  much  for  it. 

M.  Gour.    Well,  I  can  beare  enough,  but  not  too  much. 
Come,  give  it  me;  twere  best  you  be  persuaded  ; 
By  God  —  ye  make  me  sweare  —  now  God  forgive  me  !  — 
Give  me,  I  say,  and  stand  not  long  upon  it ;  155 

Go  to,  I  am  angry  at  the  heart,  my  very  heart. 

Mis.  Gou.    Hart  me  no  hearts,  you  shall  not  have  it,  sir, 
No,  you  shall  not  ;   nere  looke  so  big, 
I  will  not  be  affraide  at  your  great  lookes  ; 


580      A  pleasant   Comedie  of  the  two        [sc. 

You  shall  not  have  it,  no,  you  shall  not  have  it.  1 60 

M.  Gou.    Shall  I  not  have  !  it  ?   in  troth,  He  try  that : 

Minion,  He  hav'te  ;   shall  I  not  hav'te  ?  —  I  am  loath  — 

Go  too,  take  pausment,  be  advisde  — 

In  faith,  I  will ;   and  stand  not  long  upon  it  — 

A  woman  of  your  yeares  I     J  am  ashamde  165 

A  couple  of  so  long  continuance 

Should  thus  —  Gods  foote  —  I  crye  God  hartely  mercy  !  — 

Go  to,  ye  vex  me ;   and  He  vexe  ye  for  it  ; 

Before  I  leave  ye,  I  will  make  ye  glad 

To  tender  it  on  your  knees;   heare  ye,  I  will,  I  will.  170 

What,  worse  and  worse  stomacke  !   true,  i '-  faith  ! 

Shall  I  be  crost  by  you  in  my  olde  age  ? 

And  where  I  should  have  greatest  comfort  to, 

A  nursse  of  you  ?  —  nursse  in  the  divels  name!  — 

Go  to,  mistris  ;   by  Gods  pretious  deere,  175 

If  ye  delaie  — 

Mi.  Gou.    Lord,  Lord,  why,  in  what  a  fit 

Are  you  in,  husband  !   so  inrag'd,  so  moov'd, 

And  for  so  slight  a  cause,  to  read  a  letter  ! 

Did  this  letter,  love,  conteine  my  death,  1 80 

Should  you  denie  my  sight  of  it,  I  would  not 

Nor  see  my  sorrow  nor  eschew  mv  danger, 

But  willinglie  yeeld  me  a  patient 

Unto  the  doome  that  your  displeasure  gave. 

Heere  is  the  letter;   not  for  that  your  incensment  185 

[Gives  back  the  letter. ] 

Makes  me  make  offer  of  it,  but  your  health, 

Which  anger,  I  doe  feare,  hath  crasd, 

And  viper  like  hath  suckt  away  the  blond 

That  wont  was  to  be  cheerefull  in  this  cheeke  : 

How  pale  yee  looke  !  190 

M.  Gou.    Pale  !   can  yee  blame  me  for  it  ?   I  tell  you  true, 

An  easie  matter  could  not  thus  have  moov'd  me. 

Well,  this  resignement,  and  so  foorth  —  but,  woman, 

This  fortnight  shall  I  not  forget  yee  for  it.  — 

1  Q  2,  baun.  2  £)  z,  ye. 


vi]  angry  women  of  Abington  581 

Ha,  ha,  I  see  that  roughnes  can  doe  somewhat!  195 

I  did  not  thinke,  good  faith,  I  could  have  set 

So  sower  a  face  upon  it,  and  to  her, 

My  bed  embracer,  my  right  bosome  friend. 

I  would  not  that  she  should  have  seene  the  letter, 

As  poore  a  man  as  I  am,  by  my  troth,  200 

For  twenty  pound  :   well,  I  am  glad  I  have  it. —  [4side.~\ 

Ha,  heres  adoe  about  a  thing  of  nothing  ! 

What,  stomack,  ha  !   tis  happy  you  come  downe.  Exit. 

Mi.  Goii.    Well,  craftie  !  fox,  He  hunt  ye,  by  my  troth  : 
Deale  ye  so  closely  ?      Well,  I  see  his  drift :  205 

He  would  not  let  me  see  the  letter,  least 
That  I  should  crosse  the  match  ;  and  I  will  crosse  it.  — 

Enter  COMES. ~ 
Dicke  Coomes  ? 2 

Coom.    Forsooth. 

Mis.  Gour.  Come  hether,  Dicke;  thou  art  a  man  I  love,  210 
And  one  whom  I  have  much  in  my  regarde. 

Coo.    I  thanke  ye  for  it,  mistris,  I  thanke  ye  for  it. 

Mi.  Gou.    Nay,  heers  my  hand,  I  will  do  very  much 
For  thee,  if  ere  thou  standst  in  need  of  me  ; 

Thou  shalt  not  lack,  whilst  thou  hast  a  day  to  live,  215 

Money,  apparrell 

Coo.    And  sword  and  bucklers  ? 

Mis.  Gou.    And  sword  and  bucklers  too,  my  gallant  Dick, 
So  thou  wilt  use  but  this  in  my  defence.  219 

Coom.  This !  no,  faith,  I  have  no  minde  to  this ;  breake  my 
head,  if  this  breake  not,  if  we  come  to  any  tough  play.  Nay,  mis- 
tres,  I  had  a  sword,  I,  the  flower  of  Smithfield  for  a  sword,  a  right 
fox,3  i  faith  ;  with  that,  and  a  man  had  come  over  with  a  smooth 
and  a  sharpc  stroke,  it  would  have  cried  twang,  and  then,  when  I 
had  doubled  my  point,  traste  my  ground,  and  had  carried  my  buckler 
before  me  like  a  garden  but,4  and  then  come  in  with  a  crosse  blowe, 
and  over  the  picke5  of  his  buckler  two  elles  long,  it  would  have 

1  (,)  i ,  craft.  2  So  J2  2  ;   hut  Dy.,  H.,  K.,  transpose  these  lines. 

3  broadsword.  *  H.,  'garden-butt.'  6  the  sharp  point  in  the  centre.      Dyce. 


582      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

cryed  twang,  twang,  mettle,  mettle  :  but  a  dogge  hath  his  day  ;  tis 
gone,  and  there  are  few  good  ones  made  now.  I  see  by  this  dearth 
of  good  swords  that -1  dearth  of  sword  and  buckler  fight  begins  to  grow 
ont:2  I  am  sorrye  for  it;  I  shall  never  see  good  manhood  againe, 
if  it  be  once  gone  ;  this  poking  fight  of  rapier  and  dagger  will  come 
up  then;  then  a  man,  a  tall3  man,  and  a  good  sword  and  buckler 
man,  will  be  spitted  like  a  cat  or  a  cunney  ;  then  a  boy  will  be  as 
good  as  a  man,  unlesse  the  Lord  shewe  mercie  unto  us  ;  well,  I  had 
as  lieve  bee  hang'd  as  live  to  see  that  day.  Wei,  mistres,  what 
shal  I  do  ?  what  shal  I  do  ?  237 

Mis.    Gour.     Why,    this,    brave    Dicke.       Thou    knowest    that 

Barnses  4  wife 

And  I  am  foes  :    now,  man  me  to  her  house ; 

And  though  it  be  darke,  Dicke,  yet  weelle  have  no  light,  240 

Least  that  thy  maister  should  prevent  our  journey 
By  seeing  our  depart.      Then,  when  we  come, 
And  if  that  she  and  I  do  fall  to  words, 
Set  in  thy  foote  and  quarrell  with  her  men, 

Draw,  fight,  strike,  hurt,  but  do  not  kill  the  slaves,  245 

And  make  as  though  thou  struckst  at  a  man, 
And  hit  her,  and  thou  canst, — a  plague  upon  her!  — 
She  hath  misusde  me,  Dicke  :   wilt  thou  do  this  ? 

Coorn.  Yes,  mistresse,  I  will  strike  her  men  ;  but  God  forbid  that 
ere  Dicke  Coomes  should  be  scene  to  strike  a  woman  !  250 

Mi.  Gour.    Why,  she  is  mankind,5  therefore  thou  maist  strike  her. 

Gootn.  Mankinde !  nay,  and  she  have  any  part  of  a  man,  lie 
strike  her,  I  warrant. 

Mi.  Gour.    Thats  my  good  Dicke,  thats  my  sweet  Dicke  !      254 

Coom.  Swones,  who  would  not  be  a  man  of  valour  to  have  such 
words  of  a  gentlewoman  !  one  of  their  words  are  more  to  me  then 
twentie  of  these  russet  coates  cheese-cakes  and  butter  makers. 
Well,  I  thanke  God,  I  am  none  of  these  cowards  ;  well,  and  a  man 
have  any  vertue  in  him,  I  see  he  shall  be  regarded.  \_Asidc^\ 

Ml.  Gour.  Art  thou  resolved,  Dicke  ?  wilt  thou  do  this  for  me  ? 
And  if  thou  wilt,  here  is  an  earnest  penny  261 

Of  that  rich  guerdon  I  do  meane  to  give  thee.  [Gives  money.] 

1  Q  I,  and.  2  Qtos. ,  out.  3  brave.  *  Q  2,  Gourseys.  6  manlike. 


VH]  angry   women   of  Abington  583 

Coom.  An  angell,  mistrcsse  !  let  me  see.  Stand  you  on  my  left 
hand,  and  let  the  angell  lye  on  my  buckler  on  my  right  hand,  for 
feare  of  losing.  Now,  heere  stand  I  to  be  tempted.1  They  say, 
every  man  hath  two  spirits  attending  on  him,  eyther  good  or  bad  ; 
now,  I  say,  a  man  hath  no  other  spirits  but  eyther  his  wealth  or  his 
wife  :  now,  which  is  the  better  of  them  ?  why,  that  is  as  they  are 
used  ;  for  use  neither  of  them  well,  and  they  are  both  nought.  But 
this  is  a  miracle  to  me,  that  golde  that  is  heavie  hath  the  upper,  and 
a  woman  that  is  light  doth  soonest  fall,  considering  that  light  things 
aspire,  and  heavie  things  soonest  go  downe  :  but  leave  these  con- 
siderations to  sir  John,2  they  become  a  blacke  coate  better  than  a 
blew.  Well,  mistresse,  I  had  no  minde  to  daye  to  quarrell ;  but  a 
woman  is  made  to  bee  a  mans  seducer;  you  say,  quarrell.  275 

Mi.  Gou.    I. 

Coom.    There  speakes  an  angell  :   is  it  good  ? 

Mis.  Gou.    I. 

Coom.  Then,  I  cannot  doe  amisse;  the  good  angell  goes  with  me. 

Exeunt. 

[Scene  Seventh.3     The  Forest  near  Sir  Raphs  House.'] 

Enter  SIR    RAPH  SMITH,   his  LADY,   and  WILL    [and  ATTENDANTS]  . 

S.  Raph.    Come  on,  my  harts  :   i  faith,  it  is  ill  lucke, 
To  hunt  all  day,  and  not  kill  any  thing. 
What  sayest  thou,  lady  ?   art  thou  weary  yet  ? 

La.    I  must  not  say  so,  sir. 

Sir  Ra.    Although  thou  art.  5 

IVU.    And  can  you  blame  her,  to  be  foorth  so  long, 
And  see  no  better  sport  ? 

Ra.    Good  faith,  twas  very  hard. 

La.    No,  twas  not  ill, 
Because,  you  know,  it  is  not  good  to  kill.  10 

Ra.    Yes,  venson,  ladie. 

La.    No,  indeed,  nor  them  ; 
Life  is  as  deere  in  deare  as  tis  in  men. 

1  Cf.  M.  of  V.,  II.  ii.,  dialogue  between  Gobbo's  conscience  and  the  fiend. 

2  the  parson.  »  £.,  Act  III.  Sc.  I. 


584      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc, 

Ra.    But  they  are  kild  for  sport. 

Lad.    But  thats  bad  play,  15 

When  they  are  made  to  sport  their  lives  away. 

Ra.    Tis  fine  to  see  them  runne. 

La.    What,  out  of  breath  ? 
They  runne  but  ille  that  runne  themselves  to  death. 

Ra.    They  might  make,  then,  lesse  hast,  and  keep  their  winde. 

La.    Why,  then,  they  see  the  hounds  brings  death  behinde.       21 

Rap.  Then,  twere  as  good  for  them  at  first  to  stay, 
As  to  run  long,  and  run  their  lives  away. 

La.    I,  but  the  stoutest  of  you  all  thats  here 

Would  run  from  death  and  nimbly  scud  for  feare.  25 

Now,  by  my  troth,  I  pittie  those  poor  elfes.1 

Ra.    Well,  they  have  made  us  but  bad  sport  to  day. 

La.    Yes,  twas  my  sport  to  see  them  scape  away. 

Will.    I  wish  that  I  had  beene  at  one  bucks  fall. 

La.    Out,  thou  wood-tyrant  !   thou  art  worst  of  all.  30 

Wil.    A  woodman,2  ladie,  but  no  tyrant  I. 

La.    Yes,  tyrant-like  thou  lovest  to  see  lives  dye. 

Ra.    Lady,  no  more  :   I  do  not  like  this  lucke, 
To  hunt  all  day,  and  yet  not  kill  a  buck. 

Well,  it  is  late  ;  but  yet  I  sweare  I  will  35 

Stay  heere  all  night  but  I  a  buck  will  kill. 

La.    All  night  !   nay,  good  sir  Raph  Smith,  do  not  so. 

Ra.    Content  ye,  ladie.  —  Will,  go  fetch  my  bow: 
A  berrie  3  of  faire  roes  I  saw  to  day 

Downe  by  the  groves,  and  there  He  take  my  4  stand,  40 

And  shoote  at  one  ;  God  send  a  luckie  hand  ! 

La.    Will  ye  not,  then,  sir  Raph,  go  home  with  me  ? 

Ra.  No,  but  my  men  shall  beare  thee  company.  — 
Sirs,  man  her  home.  —  Will,  bid  the  huntsmen  couple, 
And  bid  them  well  reward  their  hounds  to  night.  —  45 

Ladie,  farewell.  — Will,  hast  ye  with  the  bow; 
He  stay  for  thee  heere  by  the  grove  below. 

1  A  line  missing,  to  rhyme  with  'elfes. *      Hazlitt.  2  forester. 

3  A   barrow  ;    ,ilso  a   burrow   when   of  rabbits,   as  in  Sc.    x,    I.    9.       Here   it   is  probably  a 
misprint  for  bevvie  zz  bevy.      So  E.  *  (,)  i,  me. 


VIH]  angry   'women   of  Abington  585 

Wtl.    I  will ;  but  twill  be  darke,  I  shall  not  see  : 
How  shall  I  see  ye,  then  ? 

Ra.    Why,  hollo  to  me,  and  I  wil  answer  thee.  50 

IVll.    Enough,  I  wil. 

Rapb.    Farewell.  Exit. 

La.    How  willingly  doost  thou  consent  to  go 
To  fetch  thy  maister  that  same  killing  bow  ! 

Wil.    Guiltie  of  death  I  willing  am  in  this,  55 

Because  twas  our  ill  haps  to  day  to  misse  : 
To  hunt,  and  not  to  kill,  is  hunters  sorrow. 
Come,  ladie,  weell  have  venson  ere  to  morrow.  Exeunt. 

[Scene  Eighth.     In  front  of  Barneses  House. ~\ 

Enter  PHILIP  and  FRANK   \_and  BOY]  . 

Phil.    Come,  Franke,  now  we  are  hard  by  the 1  house  : 
But  how  now,  sad  ? 

Fran.    No,  to  studie  how  to  woe  thy  sister. 

Phil.    How,  man  ?   how  to  woe  her  !   why,  no  matter  how ; 
I  am  sure  thou  wilt  not  be  ashamed  to  woe.  5 

Thy  cheekes  not  subject  to  a  childish  blush, 
Thou  hast  a  better  warrant  by  thy  wit ; 
I  know  thy  oratorie  can  unfold 
Quicke  invention,  plausible  discourse, 

And  set  such  painted  beautie  on  thy  tongue,  10 

As  it  shall  ravish  every  maiden  sence  ; 
For,  Franke,  thou  art  not  like  the  russet  youth 
I  tolde  thee  of,  that  went  to  woe  a  wench, 
And  being  full  stuft  up  with  fallow  wit 

And  mcddow  matter,  askt  the  pretty  maide  15 

How  they  solde  corne  last  market  day  with  them, 
Saying,  *  Indeed,  twas  very  deare  with  them.' 
And,  do  ye  heare,  ye2  had  not  need  be3  so, 
For  she4  will,  Francis,  throwly  •'  trie  your  wit: 
Sirra,  sheel  bow  the  mettall  of  your  wits,  20 

'Qi.'th.'          2  fitos.,  be.          8  i>  2,  'doe.'  <  Q  I,  tbte.          8  Q  I ,  '  thorowly. ' 


586      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

And,  if  they  cracke,  she  will  not  hold  ye  currant ; 

Nay,  she  will  way  your  wits  as  men  way  *  angels, 

And,  if  it2  lacke  a  graine,  she  will  not  change3  with  ye. 

I  cannot  speake  it  but  in  passion, 

She  is  a  wicked  wench  to  make  a  jest ;  25 

Aye  me,  how  full  of  floutes  and  mockes  she  is  ! 

Fran.    Some  aqua  vitte  reason  to  recover 
This  sicke  discourser  !      Sound  4  not,  prethy,  Philip. 
Tush,  tush,  I  do  not  thinke  her  as  thou  saiest : 

Perhaps  shees  opinions  darling,  Phillip,  30 

Wise  in  repute,  the  crowes  bird.      O  my  friend, 
Some  judgements  slave  themselves  to  small  desart,5 
And  wondernize  the  birth  of  common  wit, 
When  their  owne6  straungenes  do  but  make  that  strange, 
And  their  ill  errors  do  but  make  that  good  :  35 

And  why  should  men  debase  to  make  that  good  ? 
Perhaps  such  admiration  winnes  her  wit. 

Phil.    Well,  I  am  glad  to  heare  this  bold  prepare 
For  this  encounter.      Forward,  hardy  Franke  ! 

Yonders  the  window  with  the  candle  int ;  40 

Belike  shees  putting  on  her  night  attire: 
I  told  ye,  Franke,  twas  late.      Well,  I  will  call  her, 
Mary,  softly,  that  my  mother  may  not  heare.  — 
Mall,  sister  Mall ! 

Enter  MALL  in  the  window. 

Mai.    How  now,  whose  there  ?  45 

Phil.    Tis  I. 

Mai.    Tis  I  !   who  I  ?      I,  quoth  the  dogge,  or  what  ? 
A  Christ  crosse  rowe  I  ? " 
Phi.    No,  sweete  pinckanie.8 
Mai.    O,  ist  you,  wilde  oates  ?  50 

1  Q  2,  '  may. '  *>  bow  down  before  intellects  of  small  merit. 

2  Q  2,   /.  6  Qtos.,  wane. 

8  Q  2.,  cbankc.  "  An  /  of  the  Christ-cross  row  or  alphabet. 

*  Q  i ,  sound,  i.e.  swoon.  8  pigsney.      Cent.  Diet.       But    Dyce :    a    term    of 

endearment,  formed,  perhaps,  from  pink,  to  wink,  to  contract  the  eyelids. 


VIH]  angry   women   of  Abington  587 

Phil.    I,  forsooth,  wanton. 

Mai.    Well  said,  scape  thrift. 

Fran.    Philip,  be  these  your  usuall  best  salutes  ? 

Phi.    This  is  the  harmlesse  chiding  of  that  dove. 

Fran.    Dove  !   one  of  those  that  drawe  the  queene  of  love  ?       55 

Mai.    How  now  ?   whose  that,  brother  ?   whose  that  with  ye  ? 

Phil.    A  gentleman,  my  friend. 

Mai.    Beladie,  he  hath  a  pure  wit. 

Fran.     How  meanes  your  holy  judgement  ? 

Mai.    O,  well  put  in,  sir!  60 

Fran.    Up,  you  would  say. 

Mai.    Well  climde,  gentleman  ! 
I  pray,  sir,  tell  me,  do  you  carte  the  queene  of  love  ? 

Fran.    Not  cart  her,  but  couch  her  in  your  eye, 
And  a  fit  place  for  gentle  love  to  lye.  65 

Mai.    I,  but  me  thinkes  you  speake  without  the  booke, 
To  place  a  fower  1  wheele  waggon  in  my  looke  : 
Where  will  you  have  roome  to  have  the  coachman  sit  ? 

Fran.    Nay,  that  were  but  small  manners,  and  not  fit : 
His  dutie  is,  before  you  bare  to  stand,  70 

Having  a  lustie  whipstocke  in  his  hand. 

Ma.    The  place  is  voide  ;   will  you  provide  me  one  ? 

Fra.    And  if  you  please,  I  will  supply  the  roome. 

Mai.    But  are  ye  cunning  in  the  carmans  lash  ? 
And  can  ye  whistle  well  ?  75 

Fran.    Yes,  I  can  well  direct  the  coache  of  love. 

Mai.    Ah  cruell  carter,  would  you  whip  a  dove  ? 

Phil.    Harke  ye,  sister  — 

Mai.    Nay,  but  harke  ye,  brother ; 
Whose  white2  boy  is  that  same?   know  ye  his  mother?  80 

Phil.    He  is  a  gentleman  of  a  good  house. 

Mai.    Why,  is  his  house  of  gold  ? 
Is  it  not  made  of  lyme  and  stone  like  this  ? 

Phil.    I  meane,  hees  well  descended. 

Mai.    God  be  thanked  !  85 

Did  he  descend  some  steeple  or  some  ladder  ? 

1  J^tos.,  fower.  2  dear. 


588       A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Phi.    Well,  you  will  still  be  crosse :   I  tell  ye,  sister, 
This  gentleman  by  all  your  friends  consent 
Must  be  your  husband. 

Mai.    Nay,  not  all,  some  sing  another  note ;  90 

My  mother  will  say  no,  I  hold  a  groate. 
But  I  thought  twas  somewhat,  he  would  be  a  carter; 
He  hath  beene  whipping  lately  some  blinde  beare, 
And  now  he  would  ferke  *  the  blinde  bov  heere  with  us. 

Phil.    Well,  do  you   heare,  you,  sister,  mistresse  Would-Have  ? 2 
You  that  do  long  for  somewhat,  I  know  what  —  96 

My  father  tolde  me  — go  to,  He  tell  all 
If  ye  be  crosse  —  do  ye  heare  me  ?      I  have  labourd 
A  yeares  worke  in  this  afternoone  for  ye  : 

Come  from  your  cloyster,  votarie,  chas[t]e  nun,3  100 

Come  downe  and  kisse  Franke  Gourseys  mothers  sonne. 

Mai.    Kisse  him,  I  pray  ? 

Phi.    Go  to,  stale  maidenhead  !   come  downe,  I  say, 
You  seveneteene  and  upward,  come,  come  downe ; 
You'l  stay  till  twentie  else  for  your  wedding  gowne.  105 

Mai.    Nun,  votarie,  stale  maidenhead,  seventeen  and  upward  ! 
Here  be  names  !   what,  nothing  else  ? 

Fran.    Yes,  or  a  faire  built  steeple  without  bels. 

Mai.    Steeple  !    good  people,  nay,  another  cast. 

Fran.    I,  or  a  well  made  ship  without  a  mast.  no 

Mai.    Fie,  not  so  big,  sir,  by  one  part  of  foure. 

Fran.    Why,  then,  ye  are  a  boate  without  an  oare. 

Mai.    O,  well  rode,4  wit  !   but  whats  your  fare,  I  pray  ? 

Fran.    Your  faire  selfe  must  be  my  fairest  pay. 

Mai.    Nay,  and  you  be  so  deare,  He  chuse  another.  115 

Fran.  Why,  take  your  first  man,  wench,  and  go  no  further. 

Phi.    Peace,  Francis.  —  Harke  ye,  sister,  this  I  say  : 5 
You  know  my  mind  ;    or  answer,  I  or  nay. 
Wit  and  judgement  hath  resolvde  his  mind, 

And  he  foresees  what  after  he  shall  finde :  120 

If  such  discretion,  then,  shall  governe  you, 

1  beat,  urge.          -  O  2,  '  would  have.'          3  Cf.   M.N.D.,  I.  i.  70-72;   II.  ii.  162-163 
4  rowed.  5  i2  2  prints  11.  1 1  7-120  as  prose,but  with  initial  capitals. 


vm]  #ngry  women   of  Abington  589 

Vow  love  to  him,  hcelc  do  the  like  to  you. 

Mai.    Vow  love  !   who  would  not  love  such  a  comely  feature, 
Nor  high  nor  lowe,  but  of  the  middle  stature  ? 

A  middle  man,  thats  the  best  syze  indeed;  125 

I  like  him  well :   love  graunt  us  well  to  speed  ! 

Fran.    And  let  me  see  a  woman  of  that  tallnesse, 
So  slender  and  of  such  a  middle  smalnesse, 
So  olde  enough,  and  in  each  part  so  fit, 

So  faire,  so  kinde,  endued  with  so  much  wit,  130 

Of  so  much  wit  as  it  is  held  a  wonder, 
Twere  pittie  to  keepe  love  and  her  asunder ; 
Therefore  go  up,  my  joy,  call  downe  my  blisse ; 
Bid  her  come  scale  the  bargaine  with  a  kisse. 

Mai.    Franke,  Franke,  I  come  through  dangers,  death,  and  harmes, 
To  make  loves  patent1  with  my2  scale  of  armes.  136 

Phi.    But,  sister,  softly,  least  my  mother  heare. 

Mai.    Hush,  then  :  mum,  mouse  in  cheese,3  cat  is  neere. 

Exit   MAL.4 

Fran.    Now,  in  good  faith,  Philip,  this  makes  me  smile, 
That  I  have  woed  and  wonne  in  so  small  while.  140 

Phi.    Francis,  indeed,  my  sister,  I  dare  say, 
Was  not  determined  to  say  thee  nay  ; 
For  this  same  tother  thing,  calde  maiden-head, 
Hangs  by  so  small  a  haire  or  spiders  thred, 

And  worne  so  too5  with  time,  it  must  needs  fall,  145 

And,  like  a  well  lur'de  hawke,  she  knows  her  call. 

\_Enter  MALL.] 

Mai.    Whist,  brother,  whist  !   my  mother  heard  me  tread, 
And  askt,  Whose  there  ?      I  would  not  answer  her  ; 
She  calde,  A  light!   and  up  shees  gone  to  seeke  me: 
There  when  she  findes  me  not,  sheel  hethcr  come;  150 

Therefore  dispatch,  let  it  be  quickly  done. 
Francis,  my  loves  lease  I  do  let  to  thee, 
Date  of  my  life  and  thine  :   what  sayest  thou  to  me  ? 

1  ytos.  patient.  3  (,)   i,  cheesse.  *  Q  I,  to. 

2  So  H.  and  E.j  but  Qtos.  'thy.'  4  52  2i  After  previous  line. 


590      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

The  entring,  fine,  or  income  thou  must  pay, 

Are  kisses  and  embrases  every  day  ;  155 

And  quarterly  I  must  receive  my  rent ; 

You  know  my  minde. 

Fran.    I  gesse  at  thy  intent : 
Thou  shalt  not  misse  a  minute  of  thy  time. 

Mai.    Why,  then,  sweet  Francis,  I  am  onely  thine. —  160 

Brother,  beare  witnesse. 

Phi.    Do  ye  deliver  this  as  your  deed  ? 

Mul.    I  do,  I  do. 

Ph.    God  send  ye  both  good  speed  !      Gods  Lord,  my  mother  ! 
Stand  aside,  and  closely  too,  least  that  you  be  espied.1  165 

[Enter  MISTRESSE   BARNES.] 

Mi.  Ba.    Whose  there  ? 

Phi.    Mother,  tis  I. 

Mis.  Ba.    You  disobedient  ruffen,  carlesse  wretch, 
That  said  your  father  lovde  me  but  too  well ! 

He  thinke  on't  when  thou  thinkst  I  have  forgotten2  it:  170 

Whose  with  thee  else  ?  —  How  now,  minion  ?   you  ! 
With  whom  ?   with  him  !  — Why,  what  make  you  heere,  sir, 
And  thus  late  too  ?  what,  hath  your  mother  sent  ye 
To  cut  my  throate,  that  heere  you  be  in  waite  ?  — 
Come  from  him,  mistris,  and  let  go  his  hand.—  175 

Will  ye  not,  sir  ? 

Fra.    Stay,  mistresse  Barnes,  or  mother,  what  ye  will ; 
Shees3  my  wife,  and  here  she  shall  be  still. 

Mi.  Ba.    How,    sir?     your    wife!     wouldst    thou    my    daughter 

have  ? 
He  rather  have  her  married  to  her  grave.4  180 

1  Some  word,  or  words,  have  dropt  out  here.      The  lines  ought  to  be  arranged  thus  :  — 

"  God  send  ye  both  good  speed  !  — 

Gods  Lord,  my  mother  !  —  iQuickly  stand  aside, 
And  closely  too,  least  that  you  be  espied."      Dyce. 

The  missing  foot  before  '  stand  '  may  indicate  the  dramatic  pause  for  surprise.     See  my  Appen- 
dix to  Greene  (Metres). 

2  Dy. ,  H.,  K.,  '  forgot.'  3  Read,  for  the  metre,  "  Shee  is."      Dyce. 
4  Cf.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  III.  v.    141. 


vm]  angry   women   of  Abington  591 

Go  to,  be  gone,  and  quickly,  or  I  sweare 
He  have  my  men  beate  ye  for  staying  here. 

Phi.  Beate  him,  mother !   as  I  am  true  man, 
They  were  better  beate  the  divell  and  his  dam. 

Mi.  Bar.    What,  wilt  thou  take  his  part  ?  185 

Phil.    To  do  him  good, 
And  twere  to  wade  hetherto  up  in  blood. 

Fran.    God  a  mercy,  Phil ! 1  —  But,  mother,  heare  me. 

Mis.  Bar.    Calst  thou  me  mother  ?   no,  thy  mothers  name 
Carryes  about  with  it  reproche  and  shame.  190 

Give  me  my  daughter  :   ere  that  she  shall  wed 
A  strumpets  sonne,  and  have  her  so  mislead, 
He  marry  her  to  a  carter;  come,  I  say, 
Give  me  her  from  thee. 

Fra.    Mother,2  not  to  day,  195 

Nor  yet  to  morrow,  till  my  lives  last  morrow 
Make  me  leave  that  which  I  with  leave  did  borrow : 
Heere  I  have  borrowed  love,  He  not  denaie3  it. — 
Thy  wedding  night's  my  day,  then  He  repay  it.— 
Till  then  sheel  trust  me.  —  Wench,  1st4  not  so  ?  200 

And  if  it  be,  say  I,  if  not,  say  no. 

Mai.    Mother,  good  mother,  heare  me  !     O  good  God, 
Now  we  are  even,  what,  would  you  make  us  odde  ? 
Now,  I  beseech  ye,  for  the  love  of  Christ, 

To  give  me  leave  once  to  do  what  I  list.  205 

I  am  as  you  were  when  you  were  a  maide ; 
Gesse  by  your  selfe  how  long  you  would  have  staide, 
Might  you  have  had  your  will  :   as  good  begin 
At  first  as  last,  it  saves  us  from  much  sinne ; 

Lying  alone,  we  muse  on  things  and  things,  210 

And  in  our  mindes  one  thought  another  brings : 
This  maides  life,  mother,  is  an  idle  life, 
Therefore  He  be,  I,  I  will  be  a  wife ; 
And,  mother,  doe  not  mistrust 5  my  age  or  power, 
I  am  sufficient,  I  lacke  nere  an  houre ;  215 

1  Eds.  '  Philip.1  2  Q  2,  Mather.  »  Q  2,  '  deny/ 

4  Read,  for  the  metre,  "  is  it."      Dyce.  6  ^  I,  mistrurst. 


592      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc 

I  had  both  wit  to  graunt  when  he  did  woe  me, 
And  strength  to  beare  what  ere  he  can  doe  to  me. 

Mi.  Bar.1    Well,  bold-face,  but  I  meane  to  make  you  stay. 
Goe  to,  come  from  him,  or  He  make  ye  come  : 
Will  yee  not  come  ?  22O 

Phi.    Mother,  I  pray  forbeare; 
This  match  is  for  my  sister. 

Mi.  Bar.    Villaine,  tis  not ; 
Nor  she  shall  not  be  so  matcht  now. 

Phi.    In  troth,  she  shall,  and  your  unruly  hate  225 

Shall  not  rule  us  ;   weele  end  all  this  debate 
By  this  begun  devise. 

Mi.  Bar.    I,  end  what  you  begun  !      Villaines,  theeves, 
Give  me  my  daughter  !   will  ye  rob  me  of  her  ?  — 
Help,  help  !   theil  rob  me  heere,  theil  rob  me  heere  !  230 

Enter   MASTER   BARNES  and  bis   men. 

M.  Bar.    How  now?  what  outcry  is  here  ?  why,  how  now,  woman? 

Mi.  Ba.    Why,  Gourseys  sonne,  confederates2  with  this  boy, 
This  wretch  unnaturall  and  undutifull, 
Seekes  hence  to  steale  my  daughter  :   will  you  sufter  it  ? 
Shall  he,  thats  sonne  to  my  arche-enemy,  235 

Enjoy  her  ?   have  I  brought  her  up  to  this  ? 

0  God,  he  shall  not  have  her,  no,  he  shall  not ! 

M.  Bar.    I  am  sorry  she  knowes  it.    [Aside\. —  Harke-ye,  wife, 
Let  reason  moderate  your  rage  a  little. 

If  you  examine  but  his  birth  and  living,  240 

His  wit  and  good  behaviour,  you  will  say, 
Though  that  ill  hate  make  your  opinion  bad, 
He  dooth  deserve  as  good  a  wife  as  she. 

Enter   MISTRIS   GOURSEY  and  CooMES.3 

Ml.  Ear.    Why,  will  you  give  consent  he  shall  enjoy  her  ? 

M.  Bar.     I,  so  that  thy  minde  would  agree  with  mine.  245 

Mi.  Bar.     My  minde  shall  nere  agree  to  this  agreement. 

1  Q.  2,  Mi  Gou. 

'2  So  Qtos.    Eds.,  'confederate.'    But  the  plural  is  idiomatic:  as  'lie  has  gone  partners  with  Philip.1 
3  Occurs  here  in  Qtos.   (to  warn  the  actors  to  be  in  readiness  for  coming  on  the  stage).      Dyce. 


vm]  angry   women   of  Abington  593 

M.  Ba.    And  yet  it  shall  go  forward  :  —  but  who's  heere  ? 
What,  mistris  Goursey  !   how  knew  she  of  this  ? 

Phi.    Franke,  thy  mother. 

Fra.    Swones,  where  ?   a  plague  uppon  it  !  250 

I  thinke  the  devill  is  set  to  crosse  this  match. 

Mi.  Go.    This  is  the  house,  Dick  Coomes,  and  yonders  light : 
Let  us  go  neere.      How  now  ?   me  thinkes  I  see 
My  sonne  stand  hand  in  hand  with  Barnes  his  daughter.  — 
Why,  how  now,  sirra  ?    is  this  time  of  night  255 

For  you  to  be  abroad  ?   what  have  we  heere  ? 
I  hope  that  love  hath  not  thus  coupled  you. 

Fra.    Love,  by  my  troth,  mother,  love  :   she  loves  me, 
And  I  love  her;  then  we  must  needs  agree. 

Mi.  Bar.    I,  but  He  keep  her  sure  enough  from  thee.  260 

Mi.  Go.    It  shall  not  need.      He  keep  him  safe  enough; 
Be  sure  he  shal  not  graft  in  such  a  stock. 

Mi.  Bar.    What  stock,  forsooth  ?   as  good  a  stock  as  thine  : 
I  doe  not  meane  that  he  shall  graft  in  mine. 

Mi.  Gou.    Nor  shall  he,  mistris.  —  Harke,  boy  ;  th'art  but  mad 
To  love  the  branch  that  hath  a  roote  so  bad.  266 

Fra.    Then,  mother,  He  graft  a  pippin  on  a  crab. 

Mi.  Gou.    It  will  not  proove  well. 

Fra.    But  He  proove  my  skill. 

Mi.  Bar.    Sir,  but  you  shall  not.  270 

Fra.    Mothers  both,  I  will. 

M.  Bar.    Harke,  Phillip  :   send  away  thy  sister  straight ; 
Let  Francis  meete  her  where  thou  shalt  appoint ; 
Let  them  go  severall  to  shun  suspition, 

And  bid  them  goe  to  Oxford  both  this  night ;  275 

There  to  morrow  say  that  we  will  meete  them, 
And  there  determine  of  their  marriage.  [Aside. ~\ 

Phi.    I  will :   though  it  be  very  late  and  darke, 
My  sister  will  endure  it  for  a  husband.  [Aside. ~\    279 

M.  Ba.    Well,  then,  at !  Carfolkes,-  boy,  I  meane  to  meet  them. 

\  Aside.} 

1  J)    2,    •  to.  ' 

2  Carfax  (yuaJrif'urcus),  the  centre  of  Oxford,  at  the  junction  of  Cornmarket,  St.  Aldate's, 
yueen  St.,  and  the  High. 


594      -d  pleasant   Comedie  of  the  two        [sc. 

Phil.    Enough.  Exit  [MASTER   BARNES]  . 

Would  they  would  begin  to  chide  ! 
For  I  would  have  them  brawling,  that  meane  while 
They  may  steale  hence,  to  meete  where  I  appoint J  it.      \_dside~\.  — 
What,  mother,  will  you  let  this  match  go  forward  ?  — 
Or,  mistresse  Goursey,  will  you  first  agree  ?  285 

Mi.  Gou.    Shall  I  agree  first  ? 

Phi.    I,  why  not  ?   come,  come. 

Mi.  Go.    Come  from  her,  sonne,  and  if  thou  lov'st  thy  mother. 

Mi.  Bar.    With  the  like  spell,  daughter,  I  conjure  thee. 

Mi.  G.    Francis,  by  faire  means  let  me  win  thee  from  her,     290 
And  I  will  gild  my  blessing,  gentle  sonne, 
With  store  of  angels.      I  would  not  have  thee 
Check  thy  good  fortune  by  this  cusning  choise : 
O,  doe  not  thrall  thy  happie  libertie 

In  such  a  bondage  !   if  thou'lt  be  needs  bound,  295 

Be,  then,  to  better  worth  ;   this  worthlesse  choise 
Is  not  fit  for  thee. 

Mi.  Bar.    1st  not  fit  for  him  ?   wherefore  1st  not  fit  ? 
Is  he  too  brave2  a  gentleman,  I  praie  ? 

No,  tis  not  fit;   she  shall  not  fit  his  turner  300 

If  she  were  wise,  she  would  be  fitter  for 
Three  times  his  better.  —  Minion,  go  in,  or  lie  make  ye; 
He  keep  ye  safe  from  him,  I  warrant  ye. 

Mi.  Gou.    Come,  Francis,  come  from  her. 

Fra.    Mothers,  with  both  hands  shove  I  hate  from  love,          305 
That  like  an  ill  companion  would  infe£t 
The  infant  minde  of  our  affection  3  : 
Within  this  cradle  shall  this  minutes  babe 
Be  laide  to  rest ;   and  thus  He  hug4  my  joy. 

Mi.  Gou.  Wilt  thou  be  obstinate,  thou  selfe  wilde5  boy?  310 
Nay,  then,  perforce  He  parte  ye,  since  ye  will  not. 

Coom.  Doe  yee  heare,  mistresse  ?  praie  yee  give  me  leave  to 
talke  two  or  three  cold  words  with  my  yong  master.  —  Harke  ye, 
sir,  yee  are  my  masters  sonne,  and  so  foorth  ;  and  indeed  I  beare  ye 
some  sz;ood  will,  partlie  for  his  sake,  and  partly  for  your  own  ;  and  I 

'02,   appoint.  -  fine.  3  £)  ;,  -flection.  4  Q  2,  /.>:^,-.  f>  AV.,  self-willed. 


vm]  angry   women   of  Abington  595 

do  hope  you  do  the  like  to  me,  —  I  should  be  sorry  els.  I  must 
needs  sale,  ye  are  a  yong  man  ;  and  for  mine  owne  part,  I  have 
scene  the  world,  and  I  know  what  belongs  to  causes,  and  the  expe- 
rience that  I  have,  I  thanke  God  I  have  travelled  for  it. 

Fra.    Why,  how  far  have  yee  travelled  for  it  ?  320 

Boy.    From  my  masters  house  to  the  ale-house. 

Coo.    How,  sir  ? 

Bo.    So,  sir. 

Coo.  Go  to.  —  I  praie,  correct  you  boie ;  twas  nere  a  good 
world,  since  a  boie  would  face  a  man  so.  325 

Fra.    Go  to.  —  Forward,  man. 

Coorn.  Wei,  sir,  so  it  is,  I  would  not  wish  ye  to  marry  without 
my  mistres  consent. 

Fra.    And  why  ? 

Cootn.  Nay,  theres  nere  a  why  but  there  is  a  wherefore  ;  I  have 
known  some  have  done  the  like,  and  they  have  daunst  a  galliard  at 
Beggers  bush  1  for  it.  332 

Boy.  At  Beggers  bush  !  —  here  him  no  more,  maister  ;  he  doth 
bedawbe2  ye  with  his  durty  speech.  —  Doe  ye  heare,  sir?  how  farre 
stands  Beggers  bushe  from  your  fathers  house,  sir  ?  How,  thou 
whorson  refuge3  of  a  tailor,  that  wert  premise  to  a  tailor  half  an 
age,  and  because  if  thou  hadst  served  ten  ages  thou  wouldst  proove 
but  a  botcher,  thou  leapst  from  the  shop  board  to  a  blew  coate,4 
doth  it  become  thee  to  use  thy  tearmes  so  ?  wel,  thou  degree  above 
a  hackney,  and  ten  degrees  under  a  page,  sow  up  your  lubber  lips, 
or  tis  not  your  sworde  and  buckler  shall  keep  my  poniard  from  your 
brest.  342 

Coo.    Do  yee  heare,  sir  ?  this  is  your  boy. 

Fran.    How  then  ? 

Coom.    You  must  breech  him  for  it.  345 

Fran.    Must  I  ?   how,  if  I  will  not  ? 

Coorn.  Why,  then,  tis  a  fine  world  when  boies  keep  boies,  and 
know  not  how  to  use  them. 

Fra.    Boy,  ye  rascall  ! 

1  A  common  proverbial  expression  :  "  Beggars  hush,"  says  Ray,  "  being  a  tree  notoriously 
known,  on  the  left  hand  of  the  London  road  from  Huntington  to  Caxton."  Pro-verbs,  p. 
244,  cd.  1768.  Dyce.  2  ^  ->  be  da-wbe.  8  refuse.  4  livery. 


596      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Mi.  Gour.    Strike  him,  and  thou  darst.  350 

Coom.  Strike  me !  alas,  he  were  better  strike  his  father !  — 
Sownes,  go  to,  put  up  your  bodkin.1 

Fran.    Mother,  stand  by;   He  teach  that  rascall  — 

Coom.  Go  to,  give  me  good  words,  or,  by  Gods  dines,2  He  buckle 
ye  for  all  your  bird-spit.  355 

Fran.    Will  ye  so,  sir  ? 

Phi.    Stay,  Franke,  this  pitch  of  frensie  will  defile  thee ; 
Meddle  not  with  it :  thy  unreprooved  vallour 
Should  be  high  minded;  couch  it  not  so  low. — 
Dost  heare  me  ?   take  occasion  to  slip  hence,  360 

But  secretly,  let  not  thy  mother  see  thee  : 
At  the  back  side  there  is  a  cunny  greene ; 3 
Stay  there  for  me,  and  Mall  and  I  will  come  to  thee.  [Aside.~\ 

Fra.    Enough,  I  will.      \_Aslde\^ .  —  Mother,  you  doe  me  wrong 
To  be  so  peremptory  in  your  commaund,  365 

And  see  that  rascall  to  abuse  me  so. 

Coom.  Rascall  !  take  that  and  take  all !  Do  ye  heare,  sir  ?  I 
doe  not  meane  to  pocket  up  this  wrong. 

Bo.    I  know  why  that  is. 

Coo.    Why  ?  370 

Bo.    Because  you  have  nere  a  pocket. 

Co.  A  whip,  sira,  a  whip  !  —  But,  sir,  provide  your  tooles  against 
to  morrow  morning;  tis  somewhat  darke  now,  indeed:  you  know 
Dawsons  close,  betweene  the  hedge  and  the  pond  ;  tis  good  even 
ground;  lie  meete  you  there;  and  I  do  not,  call  me  cut,4  and  you 
be  a  man,  shew  yourselfe  a  man;  weele  have  a  bout  or  two;  and 
so  weele  part  for  that  present.  377 

Fran.    Well,  sir,  well. 

Nic.   \_approacbing.~\     Boy,  have  they  appointed  to  fight  ? 

1  Common  term  for  a  small  dagger,  but,  like  '  bird-spit  '  in  the  next  speech  of  Coomes,  here 
used  in  contempt.      Dyce. 

2  The  origin   of  this   corrupted   oath   is   unknown;    Dy.,   H.,  and    E.      Ar.   E.  D.  queries 
Jignessc  =  Goddes  dignity.      But  the  poet  seems  to  be  thinking  of  'dine'  =  'dinner'  ;    hence 
Lord's  meal,  Lord's  Supper.      Cf.   "God's  board"   for  communion-table    (Bk.    Coin.    Prayer, 
1549),  and   "  God's  bread  "  for  the  wafer,    G.   G.    N.,    p.    2.19.      That   Coomes   adopts  this 
popular  etymology  is  confirmed  by  the  collocation  of  '  (rod's  dines  '  with  '  wafer-cake  '   (for  the 
Eucharist)  in  Sc.  xi.  1.   206  of  this  play.  8  rabbit-warren.  *  horse. 


vm]  angry   women   of  Abington  597 

Boy.    I,  Nicholas  ;  wilt  not  thou  go  see  the  fray  ?  380 

Nich.  No,  indeed  ;  even  as  they  brewe,  so  let  them  bake.  I 
wil  not  thrust  my  hand  into  the  flame,  and  l  need  not ;  tis  not  good 
to  have  an  oare  in  another  mans  boate  ;  little  said  is  soone  amended, 
and  in  little  medling  commeth  great  rest ;  tis  good  sleeping  in  a 
whole  skin  ;  so  a  man  might  come  home  by  Weeping  Crosse2:  no, 
by  lady,  a  friend  is  not  so  soone  gotten  as  lost;  blessed  are  the 
peace-makers  ;  they  that  strike  with  the  sword,  shall  be  beaten  with 
the  scabberd.  388 

Phil.    Well  said,  proverbs  :   nere  another  to  that  purpose  ? 

Nic.  Yes,  I  could  have  said  to  you,  sir,  Take  heed  is  a  good 
reed.3  391 

Phil.    Why   to  me,  take  heede  ? 

Ni.  For  happy  is  he  whom  other  mens  harms  do  make  to 
beware. 

Phi.    O,  beware,  Franke  !  -  —  Slip  away,  Mall.  —  You  know  what 
I  told  ye.      He  hold  our  mothers  both  in  talk  meanwhile.      \_Aside  ^\ 
—  Mother,  and  mistris  Barnes,  me  thinkes  you  should  not  stand  in 
hatred  so  hard  one  with  the  4  other. 

Mi.  Bar.    Should  I  not,  sir  ?   should  I  not  hate  a  harlot, 
That  robs  me  of  my  right,  vilde  boye  ?  400 

Mi.  Gou.    That  tytle  I  returne  unto  thy  teeth, 

\_Exeunt  FRANCIS  and  MALL.] 
And  spit  the  name  of  harlot  in  thy  face. 

Mi.  Bar.    Well,  tis  not  time  of  night  to  hold  out  chat 
With  such  a  scold  as  thou  art ;   therefore  now 
Thinke  that  I  hate  thee  as  I  doe  the  devill.  405 

Mi.  Gou.    The  devill  take  thee,  if  thou  dost  not,  wretch  ! 

Mi.  Bar.    Out  upon  thee,  strumpet ! 

Mi.  Gou.    Out  upon  thee,  harlot ! 

Mis.  Bar.    Well,  I  will  finde  a  time  to  be  reveng'd  : 
Meane  time  He  keep  my  daughter  from  thy  sonne.—  410 

Where  are  you,  minion  ?   how  now,  are  yee  gone  ? 

1  'an  I.' 

a  repent  of  his  behaviour.  Cf.  Heywood,  If  you  know  not,  etc.,  ed.  1874,  I.  267  (Cen- 
tury ).  Dyce  has  "  Nares  ( Gloss,  in  v. )  mentions  three  places  which  still  retain  the  name,  — 
one  between  Oxford  and  Banbury,  another  close  to  Stafford,  the  third  near  Shrewsbury." 

3  advice.  4  So  j,)   z.      Eds.,  'an.' 


59 8      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Phi.    She  went  in,  mother. 

Mi.  Go.    Francis  where  are  ye  ? 

Mi.  Ba.    He  is  not  heere.      O,  then,  they  slipt  away, 
And  both  together  !  415 

Phi.    He  assure  ye,  no  ; 
My  sister  she  went  in,  into  the  house. 

Mi.  Ba.    But,  then,  sheele  out  againe  at  the  backe  doore, 
And  meete  with  him  :   but  I  will  search  about 

All  these  same  fields  and  paths  neere  to  my  house ;  420 

They  are  not  far  I  am  sure,  if  I  make  haste.  Exit. 

Mi.  Go.    O  God,  how  went  he  hence,  I  did  not  see  him  ? 
It  was  when  Barnses  wife  did  scolde  with  me ; 
A  plague  on  1  her !  —  Dick,  why  didst  not  thou  looke  to  him  ? 

Coo.    What  should  I  looke  for  him  ?   no,  no,  I  looke  not  for  him 
while2  to  morrow  morning.  426 

Mi.  Gou.    Come,  go  with  me  to  help  to  looke  him  out. 
Alas,  I  have  nor  light,  nor  linke,  nor  torche  ! 
Though  it  be  darke,  I  will  take  any  paines 
To  crosse  this  match.      I  prethy,  Dick,  away.  430 

Coo.    Mistris,  because  I  brought  ye  out,  He  bring  ye  home ;   but, 
if  I  should  follow,  so  hee  might  have  the  law  on  his  side. 

Mi.  Go.    Come,  tis  no  matter ;   prethee,  goe  with  me. 

Exeunt  [MISTRESS  GOURSEY  ^WCooMES.] 

M.  Ba.    Philip,  thy  mothers  gone  to  seeke  thy  sister, 
And  in  a  rage,  i  faith  :   but  who  comes  heere  ?  435 

Ph.    Olde  master  Goursey,  as  I  thinke,  tis  he. 

M.    Ba.    Tis  so,  indeed. 

\_Enter  MASTER  GOURSEY.] 

M.  Gour.    Whoes  there  ? 
M.  Bar.    A  friend  of  yours. 

M.  Gou.    What,  master  Barnes  !  did  ye  not  see  my  wife  ?      440 
M.  Bar.    Yes,  sir,  I  saw  her ;  she  was  heere  even  now. 
M.  Gou.     I  doubted  that ;   that  made  me  come  unto  you  : 
But  whether  is  she  gone  ? 

Phil.    To  seeke  your  sonne,  who  slipt  away  from  her 

1  y  i,  '  vpon.'  2  till. 


vm]  angry   women   of  Abington  599 

To  meete  with  Mall  my  sister  in  a  place  445 

Where  I  appointed  ;   and  my  mother  too 

Seeke  for  my  sister ;   so  they  both  are  gone  : 

My  mother  hath  a  torch  ;   mary,  your  wife 

Goes  darkling  up  and  downe,  and  Coomes  before  her. 

M.  Gou.    I  thought  that  knave  was  with  her;   but  tis  well:    450 
I  pray  God,  they  may  come  by  nere  a  light, 
But  both  be  led  a  darke  daunce  in  the  night  ! 

Ho.  Why,  is  my  fellow  Dick  in  the  dark  with  my  mistres  ?  I 
pray  God,  they  be  honest,  for  there  may  be  much  knaverie  in  the 
dark  :  faith,  if  I  were  there,  I  wold  have  some  knavery  with  them. 
\Aside.~\ —  Good  maister,  wil  ye  carry  the  torch  yourself,  and  give 
me  leave  to  play  the  blind  man  buffe  with  my  mistris  ?  457 

Phil.    On  that  condition  thou  wilt  do  thy  best 
To  keep  thy  mistresse  and  thy  fellow  Dick 

Both  from  my  sister  and  thy  masters  sonne,  460 

I  will  entreate  thy  master  let  thee  goe. 

Hod.    O,  I,  I  warrant  ye,  He  have  fine  tricks  to  cousen  them. 

M.  Gou.    Well,  sir,  then,  go  your  waies  ;   I  give  you  leave. 

Hod.    O  brave  !   but  where  about  are  they  ? 

Phil.    About  our  cunny  green  they  surely  are,  465 

If  thou  canst  find  them. 

Hod.    O,  let  me  alone  to  grope  for  cunnies. 

[Gives  PHIL,  the  torch,  and~\  exit. 

Phi.    Well,  now  will  I  to  Franke  and  to  my  sister. 
Stand  you  two  harkning  neere  the  cunny  greene, 
But  sure  your  light  in  you  must  not  be  scene  ;  470 

Or  els  let  Nicholas  stand  afarre  off  with  it,     [Gives  Nicb.  the  torch."] 
And  as  his  life  keep  it  from  mistris  Goursey. 
Shall  this  be  done  ? 

M.  Bar.     Phillip,  it  shall. 

Phi.    God  be  with  ye  !      He  be  gone.  Exit.      475 

M.  Bar.    Come  on,  master  Goursey  :   this  same  is  a  meanes 
To  make  our  wives  friends,  if,  they  resist  not. 

M.  Go.    Tut,  sir,  howsoever  it  shall  go  forward. 

M.  Bar.    Come,  then,  lets  do  as  Phillip  hath  advisd. 

Exeunt  ^toward  the  curing  greene.^ 


6 oo      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

[Scene  Ninth.1      The  Cunny  Green <?.] 
Enter  MALL. 

Mai.    Heere  is  the  place  where  Phillip  bid  me  stay 
Till  Francis  came;   but  wherefore  did  my  brother2 
Appoint  it  heere  ?   why  in  the  cunny  borough  ? 
He  had  some  meaning  in't,  I  warrant  ye. 

Well,  heere  He  set  me  downe  under  this  tree,  5 

And  thinke  upon  the  matter  all  alone. 
Good  Lord,  what  pritty  things  these  cunnies  are  ! 
How  finely  they  do  feed  till  they  be  fat, 
And  then  what  a  sweet  meate  a  cunny  is  ! 

And  what  smooth  skins  they  have,  both  black  and  gray  !  10 

They  say  they  run  more  in  the  night  then  day  : 
What  is  the  reason  ?   marke  ;   why,  in  the  light 
They  see  more  passengers  then  in  the  night ; 
For  harmfull  men  many  a  haye3  do  set, 

And  laugh  to  see  them  tumble  in  the  net ;  15 

And  they  put  ferrets  in  the  holes,  —  fie,  fie!  — 
And  they  go  up  and  downe  where  conniees  lye  ; 
And  they  lye  still,  they  have  so  little  wit  : 
I  marvell  the  warriner  will  suffer  it ; 

Nay,  nay,  they  are  so  bad,  that  they  themselves  2O 

Do  give  consent  to  catch  these  prettie  elfes. 
How  if  the  warriner  should  spie  me  here  ? 
He  would  take  me  for  a  conny  I  dare  sweare. 
But  when  that  Francis  comes,  what  will  he  say  ? 
'  Looke,  boy,  there  lyes  a  conney  in  my  way  !  '  25 

But,  soft,  a  light !   whose  that  ?   soule,  my  mother  ! 
Nay,  then,  all  hid  :   i  faith,  she  shall  not  see  me ; 
He  play  bo  peepe  with  her  behind  this  tree. 

[Enter    MISTRESSE   BARNES,    with  a   torcb.~\ 

Mis.  Ba.    I  marvell  where  this  wench  doth  4  hide  her  selfe 
So  closely  ;    I  have  searcht  in  many  a  bush.  30 

1  E.,  Act  IV.  Sc.   i.  2  Q  2,  father. 

s  A  kind  of  net  for  catching  rabbits,  — usually  stretched  before  their  holes.      Dyce. 

*Ji  i,  '<!".' 


ix]  angry   women   of  Abingto?i  60  1 


MaL    Belike  my  mother  tooke  me  for  a  thrush. 

Alts.  Bar.    Shees  hid  in  this  same  warren,  He  lay  money. 

Mai.    Close  as  a  rabbet  sucker1  from  an  olde  conney.       [Aside.] 

Mi.  Bar.    O  God,  I  would  to  God  that  I  could  find  her  ! 
I  would  keepe  her  trom  her  loves  toyes  yet.  35 

MaL    I,  so  you  might,  if  your  daughter  had  no  wit.  [Aside.] 

Mi.  Ba.    What  a  vilde  girle  tis,  that  would  hav't  so  young  ! 

Mai.    A  murren  take  that  desembling  tongue! 
Ere  your  calves  teeth  were  out,  you  thought  it  long.  \_Aside.  ~\ 

Mi.  Bar.    But,  minion,  yet  He  keepe  you  from  the  man.  40 

Mall.    To  save  a  lye,  mother,  say,  if  you  can.  [Aside.] 

Ml.  Bar.    Well,  now  to  looke  for  her. 

Mai.    I,  theres  the  spight  : 
What  trick  shall  I  now  have  to  scape  her  light  ?  [Aside.] 

Mi.  Bar.    Whose  there?   what,  minion,  is  it  you?  —  45 

Beshrew  her  heart,  what  a  fright  she  put  me  to  ! 
But  I  am  glad  I  found  her,  though  I  was  afraide.  [Aside.] 

Come  on  your  wayes  ;  you  are2  a  handsome  maide  ! 
Why   [steal]  you  foorth  a  doores  so  late  at  night? 
Why,  whether  go  ye  ?   come,  stand  still,  I  say.  50 

Mai.    No,  indeed,  mother;   this  is  my  best  way. 

M.  Ba.  Tis  not  the  best  way  ;   stand  by  me,  I  tell  yee. 

Mall.    No  ;   you  would  catch  me,  mother,  —  O,  I  smell  ye  ! 

Mi.  Bar.    Will  ye  not  stand  still? 

MaL    No,  by  ladie,  no.  55 

Mis.  Bar.    But  I  will  make  ye. 

MaL    Nay,  then,  trip  and  goe. 

Mi.  Bar.    Alistresse,  He  make  ye  wearie  ere  I  have  done. 

MaL    Faith,  mother,  then,  He  trie  how  you  can  runne. 

Mis.  Bar.    Will  ye  ?  60 

MaL    Yes,  faith.  Exeunt. 

Enter  [FRANKE  and  BOY.] 

Fran.    Mai,  sweet  heart,  Mall  !   what,  not  a  word  ? 

Bov.    A  little  further  ;   call  againc. 

Fran.    Why,  Mai  !    I  prethie,  speakc  ;   why,  Mai,  I  say  ! 

1  a  young  rabbit.  2  ii  '  »  'you'r.' 


602      A  pleasant    Gomedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

I  know  thou  art  not  farre,  if  thou  wilt  not x  speake  ;  65 

Why,  Mai  !  - 

But  now  I  see  shees  in  her  merry  vaine, 

To  make  me  call,  and  put  me  to  more  paine. 

Well,  I  must  beare  with  her ;   sheel  beare  with  me  : 

But  I  will  call,  least  that  it  be  not  so. —  70 

What,  Mai  !   what,  Mall,  I  say  !  —  Boy,  are  we  right  ? 

Have  we  not  mist  the  way  this  same  darke  night  ? 

Boy.    Masse,  it  may  be  so  :   as  I  am  true  man, 
I  have  not  seen  a  cunny  since  I  came ; 

Yet  at  the  cunny-borow  we  should  meete.  75 

But,  harke  !   I  heare  the  trampling  of  some  feete. 

Fran.    It  may  be  so,  then  ;   therefore  lets  lye  close. 

[ Enter  MISTRESSE   GOURSEY  and  COOMES.! 

Mis.  Gou.    Where  art  thou,  Dicke  ? 

Coo.  Where  am  I,  quoth  a  !  mary,  I  may  be  where  any  body 
will  say  I  am  ;  eyther  in  France,  or  at  Rome,  or  at  Jerusalem,  they 
may  say  I  am,  for  I  am  not  able  to  disprove  them,  because  I  can- 
not tell  where  I  am.  82 

Mi.  Gou.    O,  what  a  blindfold  walke  have  we  had,  Dicke, 
To  seeke  my  sonne!   and  yet  I  cannot   finde  him. 

Coo.    Why,  then,  mistresse,  lets  goe  home.  85 

Mi.  Gou.    Why,  tis  so  darke  we  shall  not  finde  the  way. 

Fran.    I  pray  God,  ye  may  not,  mother,  till  it  be  day  !      \_Aside. ~\ 

Coo.    Sbloud,  take  heed,  mistris,  heres  a  tree. 

Mis.  Go.    Lead  thou  the  way,  and  let  me  hold  by  thee. 

Bo.  Dick  Coome,  what  difference  is  there  between  a  blind  man 
and  he  that  cannot  see?  91 

Fra.    Peace,  a  poxe  on  thee  ! 

Coo.    S wounds,  some  body  spake. 

Mi.  Gou.    Dicke,  looke  about ; 
It  may  be  here  we  may  finde  them  out.  95 

Coo.    I  see  the  glimpse  2  of  some  body  heere.  — 
And  ye  be  a  sprite,  He  fraie  the  bug  beare.  — 
There  a  goes,  mistresse. 

1  f)  I,  omits  'not';  but  £)  a  is  right  :  "  Even  if  you  won't  speak  I  know  you  are  lying 
in  wait  for  me. ' '  2  J,)tos. ,  glimpes. 


x]  angry  women   of  Abington  603 

Mi.  Gour.    O  sir,  have  I  spide  you  ? 

Fr.    A  plague  on  the   boy  !   twas  he  that  descried  1  me.      Exeunt. 

[Scene  Tenth.     A  Grove  in  the  Fields  between  the  Cunny 
Greene  and  the  Forest.~] 

[Enter   PHILIP.] 

Phi.    How  like  a  beauteous  lady,  maskt  in  blacke 
Lookes  that  same  large  circumference  of  heaven  ! 
The  skie,  that  was  so  faire  three  houres  agoe, 
Is  in  three  houres  become  an  Ethiope  ; 

And  being  angrie  at  her  beauteous  change,  5 

She  will  not  have  one  of  those  pearled  starres 
To  blab  her  sable  metamorphesis  :  2 
Tis  very  darke.      I  did  appoint  my  sister 
To  meete  me  at  the  cunny  berrie  below, 

And  Francis  too;  but  neither  can  I  see.  10 

Belike  my  mother  hapned  on  that  place, 
And  fraide  them  from  it,  and  they  both  are  now 
Wandring  about  the3  fields  :   how  shall  I  finde  them  ? 
It  is  so  darke,  I  scarce  can  see  my  hand  : 

Why,  then,  He  hollow  for  them — no,  not  so;  15 

So  will  his  voice  betray  him  to  our  mothers 
And  if  he  answere,  and  bring  them  where  he  is. 
What  shall  I,  then,  do  ?   it  must  not  be  so  — 
Sbloud,4  it  must  be  so ;   how  else,  I  pray  ? 

Shall  I  stand  gaping  heere  all  night  till  day,  2O. 

And  then  nere  the  neere  ? 5  —  So  ho,  so  ho! 

[Enter  WILL.] 

Wil.    So  ho  !      I  come  :   where  are  ye  ?   where  art  thou  ?   here  ! 
Phi.    How  now,  Franke,  where  hast  thou6  been  ? 
IVll.    Franke !  what  Franke  ?  sbloud,  is  sir  Raph  mad  ?   [Aside\  .— 
Heeres  the  bow."  25 

1  exposed.  2  Q  I,  mctamorpbcsir.  For  the  figure  cf.  R.  and  J.,  I.  v.,  "  Like  a  rich 

jewel  in  an  F.thiop's  ear,"  etc.  3  <,)  I,  'these.'  4  Q  I,  sblould.  !l  nearer. 

6  Not  in  52  i.  7  The  scene  is  therefore  the  grove  where  Sir  Raph  had 

engaged  to  await  Will's  return,  Sc.  vii.  ;  not  the  warren,  as  E.  has  it. 


6 04      ^4  pleasant   Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Phi.    I  have  not  been  much  private  with  that  voice  : 
Me  thinke  Franke  Goursey  talke  and  his  doth  tell  me 
I  am  mistaken  ;   especially  by  his  bow  ; 
Franke  had  no  bow.      Well,  I  will  leave  this  fellow, 

And  hollow  somewhat  farther  in  the  fields.  \_Aside~\ 30 

Doost  thou  heare,  fellow  ?    I  perceive  by  thee 

That  we  are  both  mistaken  :   I  tooke  thee 

For  one  thou  art  not ;   likewise  thou  tookst  me 

For  sir  Raph  Smith,  but  sure  I  am  not  he  : 

And  so,  farewell ;   I  must  go  seeke  my  friend.  —  35 

So  ho  !  [j£#/V.] 

IVll.    So  ho,  so  ho  !   nay,  then,  sir  Raph,  so  whoore  ! 
For  a  whore  she  was  sure,  if  you  had  her  here 
So  late.      Now,  you  are  sir  Raphe  Smith  ; 

Well  do  ye  counterfeit  and  change  your  voyce,  40 

But  yet  I  know  ye.      But  what  should  be  that  Francis  ? 
Belike  that  Francis  cussend  him  of  his  wench, 
And  he  conceals  himselfe  to  finde  her  out ; 
Tis  so,  upon  my  life.      Well,  I  will  go 
And  helpe  him  ring  his  peale  of  so  ho,  so  ho  !  [Exit.~\      45 

Enter  FRANKE.  J 

Fra.    A  plague  on  Coomes  !   a  plague  upon  the  boy  ! 
A  plague  too  —  not  on  my  mother  for  an  hundreth  pound  !2 
Twas  time  to  runne;   and  yet  I  had  not  thought 
My  mother  could  have  followed  me  so  close, 

Her  legges  with  age  I  thought  had  foundered  ;  50 

She  made  me  quite  runne  through  a  quickset  hedge, 
Or  she  had  taken  me.      Well,  I  may  say, 
I  have  runne  through   the  briers  for  a  wenche ; 
And  yet  I  have  her  not,  —  the  woorse  lucke  mine. 
Me  thought  I  heard  one  hollow  here  about;  55 

I  judge  it  Philip  :   O,  the  slave  will  laugh 
VVhen  as  he  heares  how  that  my  mother  scarde  me  ! 

1  E.  mistakenly  makes  this  'Act.  IV.  Sc.  ii.,  Another  Part  of  the  Warren*  $  but  Frank 
has  run  from  the  warren  to  the  grove  where  Sir  Raph  is  waiting  for  his  bow. 
*  J.)  2,  bound. 


x]  angry   women   of  Abington  605 

Well,  heere  He  stand  untill  I  heare  him  hollow, 
And  then  He  answere  him  ;  he  is  not  farre. 

\_Enter  SIR   RA»>H   SMITH.] 

Ra.    My  man  is  hollowing  for  me  up  and  downe,  60 

And  yet  I  cannot  meet  with  him.  —  So  ho! 

Frank.    So  ho  ! 

Ra.    Why,  what,  a  poxe,  wert  thou  so  neere  me,  man, 
And  wouldst l  not  speake  ? 

Fra.    Sbloud,  ye  are  very  hot.  65 

Rap.    No,  sir,  I  am  colde  enough  with  staying  here 
For  such  a  knave  as  you. 

Fra.    Knave  !   how  now,  Phillip  ? 
Art  mad,  art  mad  ? 

Ra.    Why,  art  not  thou  my  man  70 

That  went  to  fetch  my  bowe.2 

Fra.    Indeed,  a  bowe 

Might  shoote  me  ten  bowes  downe  the  weather  so: 
I  your  man  ! 

Ra.    What  art  thou,  then  ?  75 

Fran.    A  man  :   but  whats  thy  name  ? 

Rap.    Some  call  me  Raph. 

Franke.    Then,  honest  Raph,  farewell.3 

Ra.    Well  said,  familiar  Will !   plaine  Raph,  i  faith. 

\_Hollow  within   PHILLIP  and  WiLL.4] 

Fran.    There  calles  my  man.  80 

Ra.    But  there  goes  mine  away  ; 
And  yet  He  heare  what  this  next  call  will  say, 

[Goes  out  toward  the  fa  Ids. ~\ 
And  here  He  tarrie  till  he  call  againe. 

\Enter  WILL.] 
Wil.   So  ho! 

Fran.    So  ho!   where  art  thou,  Phillip?  85 

Wil.    Sbloud,6  Philip  ! 
But  now  he  calde6  me  Francis:   this  is  fine.  \_Aside.~\ 

1  Q  2,  ivoutdn.  a  So  Q  2.      Line  wanting  in  Q  I.  3  Q  2  omits  this  line. 

*  This  stage-direction  occurs  after  1.  75  in  ytos.  &  Qtos.,  Sblould.          G  (,)  2,  clade. 


606      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Fran.    Why  studiest  thou  ?      I  prethy,  tell  me,  Philip, 
Where  the  wench  *  is. 

IV'il.    Even  now  he  askt  me  Francis  for  the  wench,  90 

And  now  he  asks2  me  Phillip  for  the  wench.  \_Asidi\. — 

Well,  sir  Raph,  I  must  needes  tell  ye  now, 
Tis  not  for  your  3  credit  to  be  foorth 
So  late  a  wenching  in  this  order. 

Fran.    Whats  this  ?   so  late  a  wenching,  doth  he  say  ?    \_Aside~].— 
Indeed,  tis  true  I  am  thus  late  a  wenching,  96 

But  I  am  forc'st  to  wench  without  a  wench. 

IV'il.    Why,  then,  you  might  have  tane  your  bow  at  first, 
And  gone  and  kilde  a  bucke,  and  not  have  been 
So  long  a  drabbing,  and  be  nere  the  neere.  100 

Fran.    Swounds,  what  a  pussell  am  I  in  this  night ! 
But  yet  He  put  this  fellow  farther  [off]  4  \_Aside\. — 

Doost  thou  heare,  man  ?      I  am  not  sir  Raph  Smith, 
As  thou  doost  thinke  I  am  ;   but  I  did  meete  him, 
Even  as  thou  saiest,  in  pursuite  of  a  wench.  105 

I  met  the  wench  to,  and  she5  askt  for  thee, 
Saying  twas  thou  that  wert  her  love,  her  deare, 
And  that  sir  Raph  was  not  an  honest  knight 
To  traine  her  thether,  and  to  use  her  so. 

IVil.    Sbloud,  my  wench  !   swounds,  were  he  ten  sir  Raphs  — 

Fran.    Nay,  tis  true,  looke  to  it ;  and  so,  farewell.  Exit,    ill 

IV'il.    Indeed,  I  do  love  Nan,  our  darie  maide  : 
And  hath  he  traine  [d]  her  forth  to  that  intent, 
Or  for  another  ?      I  carrie  his  crossebow, 

And  he  doth  crosse  me,  shooting  in  my  bow.  115 

What  shall  I  do  ?  [£*•//.] 

[Scene   Eleventh.      The  Fields  between  the  Grove  and  the 

Forest.~\ 

Enter  PniLLip.6 
Phillip.    So  ho! 

Raph.    So  ho  ! 

1  (2  I,  ivbencb.  2  Q  I,  askt ;   Q  2,  aske.  8  Q  I  omits. 

4  Eds.  substitute  '  question,'  evidently  without  sufficient  reason.  6  Q  2  omits. 

'•  E.  makes  no  new  scene  ;    but  see  Sc.  x.  1.   30. 


xi]  angry   women   of  Abington  607 

Phil.    Frances,  art  thou  there  ? 

Ra.    No,  heres  no  Francis.      Art  thou  Will,  my  man  ? 

Phil.    Will  foole  your  man,  Will  gose  J  your  man  !  5 

Mv  hacke,  sir,  scornes  to  weare  your  liverie. 

Raph.    Nay,  sir,  I  moov'de  but  such  a  question  to  you, 
And  2  it  hath  not  disparegd  you,  I  hope  ; 
Twas  but  mistaking;  such  a  night  as  this 
May  well  deceive  a  man.      God  boye,3  sir.  \_Exit.~]      10 

Phil.    Gods  will,  tis  sir  Raph  Smith,  a  vertuous  knight ! 
How  gently  entertaines  he  my  hard  answer  ! 
Rude  anger  made  my  tongue  unmannerly  : 
I  crie  him  mercie.      Well,  but  all  this  while 
I  cannot  finde  a  Francis.  —  Francis,  ho!  15 

[Enter  WILL.] 

IVil.    Francis,  ho  !      O,  you  call  PVancis  now  ! 
How  have  ye  usde  my  Nan  ?   come,  tell  me,  how. 

Phil.    Thy  Nan  !   what  Nan  ? 

IVil.    I,  what  Nan,  now  !  say,  do  you  not  seeke  a  wench  ? 

Phi.    Yes,  I  do.  20 

IVil.    Then,  sir,  that  is  she. 

Phil.    Art  not  thou  [he]   I  met  withall  before  ? 

IVil.    Yes,  sir;   and  you  did  counterfeit  before, 
And  said  to  me  you  were  not  sir  Raph  Smith. 

Phil.  No  more  I  am  not.      I  met  sir  Raph  Smith  ;  25 

Even  now  he  askt  me  if  I  saw  his  man. 

IVil.    O,  fine  ! 

Phil.    Why,  sirra,  thou  art  much  deceived  in  me  : 
Good  faith,  I  am  not  he  thou  thinkst  I  am. 

IVil.    What  are  ye,  then  ?  30 

Phi.    Why,  one  that  seekes  one  Francis  and  a  wench. 

IVil.    And  Francis  seekes  one  Phillip  and  a  wench. 

Phil.    How  canst  thou  tell  ? 

IVil.    I  met  him  seeking  Phillip  and  a  wench, 
As  I  was  seeking  sir  Raph  and  a  wench.  35 

Phil.    Why,  then,  I  know  the  matter :   we  met  crosse, 

1  goose.      y  I,  asgoe.  -  (,)  2,  Had.  3  be  wi'  ye. 


608      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

And  so  we  mist ;  now  here  we  finde  our  losse. 
Well,  if  thou  wilt,  we  two  will  keepe  togither, 
And  so  we  shall  meet  right  with  one  or  other. 

JVil.    I  am  content :  but,  do  you  heare  me,  sir  ?  40 

Did  not  sir  Raph  Smith  aske  yee  for  a  wench  ? 

Phi.    No,  I  promise  thee,  nor  did  he  looke 
For  any  but  thy  selfe,  as  I  could  gesse. 

IV il.    Why,  this  is  strange  :   but,  come,  sir,  lets  away ; 
I  feare  that  we  shall  walke  here  till  it  be  day.  Exeunt.      45 

Enter  Bov.1 

[£0y.]  O  God,  I  have  runne  so  far  into  the  winde,  that  I  have 
runne  myselfe  out  of  winde  !  They  say  a  man  is  neere  his  end 
when  he  lackes  breath  ;  and  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  race,  for  I  can 
run  no  farther  :  then  here  I  be  in  my  breath  bed,  not  in  my  death 

Enter   COOMES. 

Coom.  They  say  men  moyle  and  toile  for  a  poore  living;  so  I 
moyle  and  toile,  and  am  living,  I  thanke  God  ;  in  good  time  be  it 
spoken.  It  had  been  better  for  me  my  mistresse2  angell  had  beene 
light,  for  then  perhaps  it  had  not  lead  me  into  this  darknesse. 
Well,  the  divell  never  blesses  a  man  better,  when  he  purses  up 
angels  by  owlight :  I  ranne  through  a  hedge  to  take  the  boy,  but  I 
stuck  in  the  ditch,  and  lost  the  boy.  [Falls.~\  Swounds,  a  plague 
on  that  clod,  that  mowlhil,  that  ditch,  or  what  the  devil  so  ere  it 
were,  for  a  man  cannot  see  what  it  was  !  Well,  I  would  not  for 
the  prize  of  my  sword  and  buckler  any  body  should  see  me  in  this 
taking,  for  it  would  make  me  but  cut  off  their  legges  for  laughing 
at  me.  Well,  downe  I  am,  and  downe  I  meane  to  be,  because  I 
am  wearie ;  but  to  tumble  downe  thus,  it  was  no  parte  of  my  mean- 
ing :  then,  since  I  am  downe,  here  He  rest  me,  and  no  man  shall 

remoove  me.  65 

hfiter  HODGE. 

Hodg.  O,  I  have  sport  in  coney,  i  faith!  I  have  almost  burst 
myselfe  with  laughing  at  mistresse  Barnes.  She  was  following  of 

1  E.  makes  this  'Act  IV.,  Sc.  iii.,  The  Open  Fields'  ;  but  the  present  scene  began  with 
Philip's  entry,  forty-five  lines  earlier.  2  Of  course  'mistress.' 


xi]  angry   women   of  Abington  609 

her  daughter ;  and  I,  hearing  her,  put  on  my  fellow  Dickes  sword 
and  buckler  voyce  and  his  swounds  and  sbloud  words,  and  led  her 
such  a  daunce  in  the  darke  as  it  passes.  '  Heere  she  is,'  quoth  I. 
'Where'?  quoth  she.  c  Here,'  quoth  I.  O,  it  hath  been  a  brave 
here  and  there  night  !  but,  O,  what  a  soft  naturcd  thing  the  durt 
is  !  how  it  would  endure  my  hard  treading,  and  kisse  mv  feete  for 
acquaintance!  and  how  courteous  and  mannerly  were  the  clods1  to 
make  me  stumble  onelie  of  purpose  to  entrcate  me  lie  downe  and 
rest  me  !  But  now,  and  I  could  find  my  fellow  Dickc,  I  would 
play  the  knave  with  him  honestly,  i  faith.  Well,  I  will  grope  in 
the  darke  for  him,  or  He  poke  with  my  starfe,  like  a  blinde  man,  to 
prevent  a  ditch.  He  stumbles  on  DICK  COOMES.- 

Coom.    Whose  that,  with  a  poxe  ?  80 

Hod.    Who  art  thou,  with  a  pestilence  ? 

Coom.    Why,  I  am  Dicke  Coomes. 

Hodg.  What,  have  I  found  thee,  Dicke  ?  nay,  then,  I  am  for  yee, 
Dicke.  \ Aside J\ — Where  are  ye,  Dicke? 

\_Assuming  MISTRESSE  GOURSEY'S  voice. ,] 

Coom.    What  can  I  tell  where  I  am  ?  85 

Hodg.  Can  yee  not  tell  ?  come,  come,  ye  waight  on  your 
mistresse  well !  come  on  your  wayes  ;  I  have  sought  you  till  I  am 
wearie,  and  calde  ye  till  I  am  hoarse  :  good  Lord,  what  a  jaunt  I 
have  had  this  night,  hey3  ho  !  89 

Coom.  1st  you,  mistresse,  that  came  over  me?  sbloud,  twere  a  good 
deed  to  come  over  you  for  this  nights  worke.  I  cannot  affoord  all  this 
paines  for  an  angell :  I  tell  ye  true  ;  a  kisse  were  not  cast  away  upon 
a  good  fellow,  that  hath  deserved  more  that  way  then  a  kisse,  if 
your  kindnesse  would  affoord  it  him  :  what,  shall  I  have  it,  mistresse? 

Hodg.    Fie,  fie,  I-must  not  kisse  my  man.  95 

Coom.  Nay,  nay,  nere  stand  ;  shall  I,  shall  I  ?  nobody  sees  :  say 
but  I  shall,  and  He  smacke  yee4  soundly,  i  faith. 

Hodg.    Away,  bawdie  man  !   in  trueth,  He  tell  your  maister. 

Coom.  My  master  !  go  to,  neerc  tell  me  of  my  maister  :  he  may 
pray  for  them  that  may,  he  is  past  it ;  and  for  mine  own  part,  I  can 
do  somewhat  that  way,  I  thanke  God  ;  I  am  not  now  to  learne, 
and  tis  your  part  to  have  your  whole  desire.  102 

1  £)  i,  clo-wdts.  2  Not  in  y  i.  8  y  i,  '  ho.'  *  (£  i,  '  it.' 

z  « 


6 io      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Hod.  Fie,  fie,  I  am  ashamed  of  you  :  would  you  tempt  your 
mistresse  to  lewdnesse  ? 

Coom.  To  lewdnesse  !  no,  by  my  troth,  thers  no  such  matter 
in't,  it  is  for  kindnesse;  and,  by  my  troth,  if  you  like  my  gentle 
offer,  you  shall  have  what  courteously  I  can  affoord  ye.  107 

Hod.  Shall  I  indeed,  Dicke  ?  I  faith,  if  I  thought  nobody  would 
see  — 

Coom.  Tush,  feare  not  that ;  swones,  they  must  have  cattes  eyes, 
then.  in 

Hod.    Then,  kisse  me,  Dick. 

Coom.  A  kinde  wenche,  i  faith!  \_Aside^\.  —  Where  are  yee, 
mistresse  ? 

Hodge.    Heere,  Dick.      O,  I  am  in  the  darke  !    Dick,  go  about. 

Coom.    Nay,  He  grope1  sure  :    where  are  yee  now  ?2  116 

Hodge.    Heere. 

Coom.  A  plague  on  this  poast !  I  would  the  carpenter  had  bin 
hangd  that  set  it  up  so.3 —  Where  are  yee  now  ? 

Hod.    Heere.      Exit.  1 20 

Coo.  Here  !  O,  I  come.  [£*//.]  A  plague  on  it,  I  am  in  a 
pond,  mistres  ! 

Hod.     [re-entering.^     Ha,   ha!    I    have   led    him   into   a    pond. — 
Where  art  thou,  Dick  ? 

Coomes.     [within.l     Up  to  the  middle  in  a  pond  !  125 

Hod.  Make  a  boate  of  thy  buckler,  then,  and  swim  out.  Are 
yee  so  hot,  with  a  pox  ?  would  you  kisse  my  mistresse  ?  coole  ye 
there,  then,  good  Dick  Coomes.  O,  when  he  comes  forth,  the 
skirts  of  his  blew  coate  will  dropp  like  a  paint-house!4  O,  that  I 
could  see,  and  not  be  scene,  how  he  would  spaniell  it,  and  shake 
himselfe  when  he  comes  out  of  the  pond  !  But  He  be  gone  ;  for 
now  heele  fight  with  a  five,  if  he  but  buz  ;j  in  his  eare.  Exit.  132 

\Re\enter  COOMES. 

Coom.  Heeres  so  hoing  with  a  plague  !  so  hang,  and  ye  wil,  for  I 
have  bin  almost  drownd.  A  pox  of  your  lips,(i  and  ye  call  this 
kissing  !  Yee  talke  of  a  drownd  rat,  but  twas  time  to  swim  like  a 

1  Q  I,  tbroive.  3  So  Q  2.       Q  I,   '  for  me.'  5  Q   I,  hu-ze. 

'*  So  £)  2.      Eds.  omit.  4  pent-house.  6  £)  I,  'stones.' 


xi]  angry   women   of  Abington  6 1 1 

dog;  I  had  bin  served  like  a  drowned  cat  els.  I  would  he  had  digd 
his  grave  that  digd  the  pond  !  my  feete  were  foule  indeed,  but  a 
lesse  pale  then  a  pond  would  have  served  my  turne  to  wash  them. 
A  man  shall  be  served  thus  alwayes,  when  he  followes  any  of  these 
females;  but  tis  my  kinde  heart  that  makes  me  thus  forward  in 
kindnes  unto  them  :  well,  God  amend  them,  and  make  them  thank- 
full  to  them  that  would  do  them  pleasure.  I  am  not  drunke,  I 
would  ye  should1  know  it;  and  yet  I  have  drunke  more  then  will 
do  me  good,  for  I  might  have  had  a  pumpe  set  up  with  as2  good 
March  beere  as  this  was,  and  nere  set  up  an  alebush  for  the  matter. 
Well,  I  am  somewhat  in  wroth,  I  must  needs  say  ;  and  yet  I  am 
not  more  angrie  then  wise,  nor  more  wise  then  angrie  but  He  fight 
with  the  next  man  I  meete,  and  it  be  but  for  luck  sake;  and  if  he 
love  to  see  him  selfe  hurt,  let  him  bring  light  with  him;  He  do  it  by 
darkling  els,  by  Gods  dines.  Well,  heere  will  I  walke,  whoso  ever 
sayes  nay.  151 

Enter  NICHOLAS  ^_ivitb  a  torch~\. 

Nic.  He  that  worse  may,  must  holde  the  candle  ;  but  my  maister 
is  not  so  wise  as  God  might  have  made  him.  He  is  gone  to  seeke 
a  hayre  in  a  hennes  nest,  a  needle  in  a  bottle  of  have,  which  is  as 
sildome  scene  as  a  black  swan  :  he  is  gone  to  seeke  my  yong  mis- 
tresse  ;  and  I  thinke  she  is  better  lost  then  found,  for  who  so  ever 
hath  her,  hath  but  a  wet  eele  by  the  taile.  But  they  may  do  as  they 
list ;  the  law  is  in  their  owne  hands  ;  but,  and  they  would  be  ruld 
by  me,  they  should  set  her  on  the  leland,a  and  bid  the  divell  split 
her;  beshrew  her  fingers,  she  hath  made  me  watch  past  mine  hower ; 
but  He  watch  her  a  good  turne  for  it.  161 

Coom.  How,  whose  that  ?  Nicholas  !  —  So,  first  come,  first  servd  ; 
I  am  for  him.  —  How  now,  proverbe,  proverbe  ?  sbloud,  howe  now, 
proverbe  ? 

AV.  My  name  is  Nicholas,  Richard  ;  and  I  knowe  your  meaning, 
and  I  hope  ye  meane  no  harme  :  I  thanke  ye,  I  am  the  better  for 
your  asking.  167 

Coo.    Where  have  you  been  a  whoring  thus  late,  ha  ? 

1  y  i,  '  should  well.'  -  Q  '»  "  '  naue  had  a  Pumpe  set  vp,  as  good." 

8  H.  and  E.,  'lee-land.'      But  the  context  indicates  '  lealand,"  the  open  fields. 


612      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Ni.  Master  Richard,  the  good  wife  would  not  seeke  her  daughter 
in  the  oven  unlesse  she  had  been  there  her  selfe :  but,  good  Lord, 
you  are  knuckle  deep  in  durt !  —  I  warrant,  when  he  was  in,  he 
swore  Walsingham,1  and  chaft  terrible  for  the  time.  —  Looke,  the 
water  drops  from  you  as  fast  as  hops.  173 

Coom.  What  needst  thou  to  care,  whipper-jenny,2  tripe-cheekes  3  ? 
out,  you  fat  asse  ! 

Ni.  Good  words  cost  nought,  ill  wordes  corrupts  good  manners, 
Richard  :  for  a  hasty  man  never  wants  woe  ;  and  I  had  thought  you 
had  bin  my  friend  ;  but  I  see  al  is  not  gold  that  glisters  ;  ther's  fals- 
hood  in  fellowship;  amicus  certus  in  re  certa  ccrnitur ;  time  and  truth 
tries  all;  and  tis  an  olde  proverbe,  and  not  so  old  as  true,  bought  wit 
is4  best;  I  can  see  day  at  a  little  hole;  I  know  your  minde  as  well 
as  though  I  were  within  you;  tis  ill  halting  before  a  criple:  go  to, 
you  seek  to  quarrel ;  but  beware  of  had  I  wist  5  ;  so  long  goes  the  pot 
to  the  water,  at  length  it  comes  home  broken6;  I  know  you  are  as 
good  a  man  as  ever  drew  sword,  or  as  was  ere  girt  in  a  girdle,  or  as 
ere  went  on  neats  leather,  or  as  one  shall  see  upon  a  summers  day, 
or  as  ere  lookt  man  in  the  face,  or  as  ere  trode  on  Gods  earth,  or  as 
ere  broke  bread  or  drunk  drinke  ;  but  he  is  proper  that  hath  proper 
conditions  ;  but  be  not  you  like  the  cowe,  that  gives  a  good  sope  of 
milke,  and  casts  it  downe  with  her"  heeles  ;  I  speakc  plainly,  for 
plaine  dealing  is  a  jewel,  and  he  that  useth  it  shal  dye  a  begger ; 
well,  that  happens  in  an  houre,  that  happens  not  in  seaven  yeeres  ;  a 
man  is  not  so  soone  whole  as  hurt;  and  you  should  kill  a  man,  you 
would  kisse  his  —  well,  I  say  little,  but  I  thinke  the  more.  —  Yet 
He  give  him  good  words  ;  tis  good  to  hold  a  candle  before  the 
devell ;  yet,  by  Gods  me,8  He  take  no  wrong,  if  he  had  a  head  as 
big  as  Brasse,9  or  lookt  as  high  as  Poules  steeple.  \_Aride^\  197 

Coo.  Sirra,  thou  grashoper,  that  shalt  skip  from  my  sword  as  from  a 
sith  ;  lie  cut  thee  out  in  collops,  and  egs,  in  steekes,  in  sliste  beefe, 
and  frye  thee  with  the  fire  I  shall  strike  from  the  pike  of  thy  buckler. 

Nich.    I,  Brag's  a  good  dog;   threatncd  folkes  live  long.  2OI 

1  Perhaps  he  swore  by  our  Lady  of  Walsingham,  — in  Norfolk.      Dyce. 

2  Whip-her-jtnny  :   a  game  of  cards.       H.         ;!  Q  I ,  '  tripe-cheekc.'        4  Q  I ,'  is  the  best.' 

5  "  If  I  had  only  known  in  time  !  "     Cf.  KecunJa  Pastorum  (Towneley),  1.  93. 

6  Cf.  Secunda  Pastorum,   1.   -518.  7  <,)  I ,  bis.  8  So  £)tos.      H.  and  K.  read  'dines.' 
9  £))'.  a  proverbial  allusion  to  the  famous  Brazen-head  ?      Dyce. 


xi]  angry   women   of  Abington  613 


Coo.    What  say  ye,  sir  ? 

NIC.    Why,  I  say  not  so  much  as  How  do  ye  ? 

Coo.    Do  ye  not  so,  sir  ? 

Nic.    No,  indeed,  what  so  ere  I  thinke;  and  thought  is  free.  205 

Coo.  You  whoreson  wafer-cake,  by  Gods  dines,1  He  crush  yee 
for  this  ! 

Ni.  Give  an  inch,  and  youle  take  an  elle  ;  I  wil  not  put  my 
finger  in  a  hole,  I  warrant  ye  :  what,  man  !  nere  crow  so  fast,  for  a 
blinde  man  may  kill  a  hare  ;  I  have  knowne  when  a  plaine  fellow 
hath  hurt  a  fencer,  so  I  have  :  what  !  a  man  may  be  as  slow  as  a 
snaile,  but  as  fierce  as  a  lyon  and  he  be  mooved  ;  indeed,  I  am 
patient,  I  must  needs  say,  for  patience  in  adversity  brings  a  man  to 
the  Three  Cranes  in  the  Ventree.2  214 

Coo.  Do  ye  heare  ?  set  downe  your  torch  ;  drawe,  fight,  I  am 
for  ye. 

Ni.  And  I  am  for  ye  too,  though  it  be  from  this  midnight  to  the 
next  morne. 

Coo.    Where  be  your  tooles  ? 

Nic.  Within  a  mile  of  an  oake,  sir;  hee's  a  proud  horse  will  not 
carry  his  owne  provender,  I  warrant  ye.  22  1 

Coo.  Now  am  I  in  my  quarrelling  humor,  and  now  can  I  say 
nothing  but  Sownes,  draw  !  but  He  untrus,  and  then  have  to  it. 

Enter  \severall^~\   HODGE  and  BOY. 

Hod.  Whose  there  ?  boy  !  honest  boy,  well  met  :  where  hast 
thou  bin  ?  225 

Bo\\  O  Hodge,  Dicke  Coomes  hath  been  as  good  as  a  crye  of 
hounds,  to  make  a  breathd  3  hay  re  of  me  !  but  didst  thou  see  my 
master  ? 

Hod.  I  met  him  even  now,  and  he  askt  me  for  thee,  and  he  is 
gone  up  and  downe,  whoing  like4  an  owle  for  thee.  230 

Boy.    Owle,  ye  asse  ! 

Hod.  Asse!  no,  nor  glasse,  for  then  it  had  been  Owleglasse5: 
but  whose  that,  boy  ? 

1  See  note,  Sc.  viii.  1.  354.  -  H.,  '  Vintry.'  8  Q  I  ,  breath.  4  Q  i  omits. 

6  The  hero  of  the  popular  German  jest-book  (Eulenspiegel'),  which  was  translated  into 
Knglish  at  a  very  early  period  ;  see  Gilford's  note  on  Jonson's  Works,  iv.  60,  and  Nare's  Gloss. 
in  v.  Dyce. 


614      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Bo.  By  the  masse,  tis  our  Coomes  and  Nicolas  ;  and  it  seemes 
they  are  providing  to  fight.  235 

Hod.  Then,  we  shall  have  fine  sport,  i  faith.  Sirra,  lets  stand 
close,  and  when  they  have  fought  a  bout  or  two,  weele  run  away 
with  the  torch,  and  leave  them  to  fight  darkling  ;  shall  we  ? 

Boy.    Content ;  He  get  the  torch  :   stand  close.  239 

Coo.  So,  now  my  back  hath  roome  to  reach  :  I  doe  not  love  to  be 
lac't 1  in,  when  I  goe  to  lace  1  a  rascall.  I  pray  God,  Nicholas  proove 
not  a  fly  :2  it  would  do  me  good  to  deale  with  a  good  man  now, 
that  we  might  have  halte  a  dozen  good  smart  stroakes.  Ha,  I  have 
seen  the  day  I  could  have  daunst  in  my  fight,  on,  two,  three,  foure, 
and  five,  on  the  head  of  him  ;  six,  seaven,  eight,  nine,  and  ten,  on 
the  sides  of  him ;  and,  if  I  went  so  far  as  fifteene,  I  warrant  I 
shewed3  him  a  trick  of  one  and  twentie  ;  but  I  have  not  fought  this 
foure  dayes,  and  I  lacke  a  little  practise  of  my  warde  ;  but  I  shall 
make  a  shift :  ha,  close  [Aside]  .  — Are  ye  disposed,  sir  ?  249 

Nic.    Yes,  indeed,  I  feare  no  colours  : 4  change  sides,  Richard. 

Coo.    Change  the  gallowes  !      He  see  thee  hangd  5  first. 

Nich.  Well,  I  see  the  foole  will  not  leave  his  bable6  for  the 
Tower  of  London. 

Coo.    Foole,  ye  roge  !   nay,  then,  fall  to  it. 

Nic.    Good  goose,  bite  not.  255 

Coo.  Sbloud,  how  pursey  I  am  !  Well,  I  see  exercise  is  all  :  I 
must  practise  my  weapons  oftner ;  I  must  have  a  goale  or  two 
at  foote-ball  before  I  come  to  my  right  kind  \_Aiide\.  —  Give  me 
thy  hand,  Nicholas  :  thou  art  a  better  man  then  I  took  thee  for, 
and  yet  thou  art  not  so  good  a  man  as  I.  260 

Ni.  You  dwell  by  ill  neighbours,  Richard  ;  that  makes  yee  praise 
your  selfe. 

Coo.    Why,  I  hope  thou  wilt  say  I  am  a  man  ? 

Ni.    Yes,  He  say  so,  if  I  should  see  yee"  hangd.  264 

Coo.  Hangd,  ye  roge!  nay,  then,  have  at  yee.  ^JVhile  they  fight, 
exeunt  HODGE,  and  BOY  with  the  torch. ~]  Swones,8  the  light  is  gone  ! 

Ni.    O  Lord,  it  is  as  darke  as  pitch  ! 

1  <,)  I,   '  last  '  :  and  '  last-.'  4  Q  Z,  coalers.  7  Q  Z,  yon. 

2  O   i,  <  silly.'  5  O_  z,  banjg.  8  O_  2>  sweses- 
8  Q  i,  '  shew.'                                 6  By  idiom  'bauble  *  ;  by  sense  'babble.' 


xn]  angry   women   of  Abington  615 

Coo.  Well,  heere  He  lye,  with  my  buckler  thus,  least  striking  up 
and  downe  at  randall,1  the  roge  might  hurt  me,  for  I  cannot  see  to 
save  it,  and  He  hold  my  peace,  least  my  voyce  should  bring  him 
where  I  am.  [Z,/<v  down  and  covers  himself  with  his  buckler, ,]  271 

Nic.  Tis  good  to  have  a  cloake  for  the  raine  ;  a  bad  shift  is  bet- 
ter than  none  at  all ;  He  sit  heere,  as  if  I  were  as  dead  as  a  doore  naile. 


[Scene  Twelfth.      The  GroveJ] 

Enter  M.  BARNES  and  M.  GOURSEY.'-' 

M.  Gou.    Harke  !  theres  one  holloes. 

M.  Bar.    And  theres  another. 

M.  Gour.    And  every  where  we  come,  I  heere  some  hollo, 
And  yet  it  is  our  haps  to  meete  with  none. 

M.  Bar.    I  marvell  where  your  Hodge  is,  and  my  man.  5 

M.  Gour.    I,  and  our  wives ;  we  cannot  meet  with  them, 
Nor  with  the  boye,  nor  Mall,  nor  Franke,  nor  Phillip,        • 
Nor  yet  with  Coomes,  and  yet  we  nere  stood  still. 
Well,  I  am  very  angry  with  my  wife, 

And  she  shall  rinde  I  am  not  pleasd  with  her,  IO 

If  we  meete  nere  so  soone  :  but  tis  my  hope.3 
She  hath  had  as  blind  a  journey  out4  as  we; 
Pray  God,  she  have,  and  worse,  if  worse  may  be  ! 

M.  Bar.    This  is  but  short  liv'de  envie,5  maister  Goursey  : 
But,  come,  what  say  yee  to  my  pollicie  ? 6  15 

M.  Gou.    I  faith,  tis  good,  and  we  will  practise  it ; 
But,  sir,  it  must  be  handelcd  cunningly, 
Or  all  is  mard  ;  our  wives  have  subtill  heads, 
And  they  will  soone  perceive  a  drift  devise. 

Enter  SIR   RAPHE  SMITH. 

Rapb.    So  ho  !  20 

M.  Gour.    So  ho  ! 

1  random. 

2  From  the   '  cunny  greene  '    (see  Sc.    viii.,  end)    having  lost  Nicholas  and  the  torch   en 
route.      E.  mistakenly  includes  this  in  the  previous  scene. 

8  £>tos,  baf>.  *  Q  2,  '  out.'  5  spite.  6  The  sham  quarrel  of  Sc.  xiv.  1.   115. 


616      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Raph.    Whose  there  ? 

M.  Bar.    Heers  on  [e]  or  two. 

Raph.    Is  Will  there  ? 

M.  Bar.    No.     Phillip  ?  25 

M.  Gour.    Franke  ? 

Raph.    No,  no.  — 

Was  ever  man  deluded  thus  like  me? 
I  thinke  some  spirit  leads  me  thus  amisse, 

As  I  have  often  heard  that  some  have  bin  30 

Thus  in  the  nights. 

But  yet  this  mases  me  ;  where  ere  I  come, 
Some  askes  me  still  for  Franke  or  Phillip, 
And  none  of  them  can  tell  me  where  Will  is.  [Aside. ~\ 

IVll.    So  ho  !    \  35 

Phil.    So  ho ! 

TT  ,      o     u    i  \J-bei  hollo  within. 

Hodg.    So  ho  ! 

Boy.    So  ho  !    J 

Rap.    Sownes,  now  I  heere  foure  hollo  at  the  least  ! 
One  had  a  little  voice  ;  then  thats  the  wench  40 

My  man  hath  lost :   well,  I  will  answer  all.  [Aside.] 

So  ho! 

[Enter  HODGE.] 

Hodg.    Whope,  whope  ! 

Raph.    Whose  there  ?      Will  ?  44 

Hod.  No,  sir ;  honest  Hodge  :  but,  I  pray  yee,  sir,  did  yee  not 
meete  with  a  boye  with  a  torche  ?  he  is  runne  away  from  me,  a 
plague  on  him  ! 

Raph.    Hey  day,  from  Franke  and  Phillip  to  a  torche, 
And  to  a  boye  !    nay,  sownes,  then,  hap  as  twill.  [Aside.] 

[Exeunt  SIR  RAPH  and  HODGE  severally.] 

M.  Gour.    Who  goes  there  ?  50 

[Enter  WILL.] 
JVil.    Gesse  heere. 
M.  Bar.    Phillip  ? 

IVil.  Phillip!  no,  faith  ;  my  names  Will,  —  ill  will,  for  I  was 
never  worse  :  I  was  even  now  with  him,  and  might  have  been  still, 


xn]  angry   women   of  Abington  617 

but  that  I  fell  into  a  ditch  and  lost  him,  and  now  I  am  going  up 
and  downe  to  seeke  him.  56 

M.  Gor.    What  wouldst  thou  do  with  him  ? 

IViL    Why,  I  would  have  him  go  with  me  to  my  maisters. 

M.  Gou.    Whose  thy  maister  ? 

Wil.  Why,  sir  Raphe  Smith  ;  and  thether  he  promist  me  he 
would  come;  if  he  keepe  his  worde,  so  tis.  61 

M.  Ba.    What  was  he1  doing  when  thou  first  found2  him  ? 

IVil.  Why,  he  holloed  for  one  Francis,  and  Francis  hollod  for 
him  ;  I  hallod  for  my  maister,  and  my  maister  for  me  ;  but  we  mist 
still,  meeting  contrary,  Phillip  and  Francis  with  me  and  my  maister, 
and  I  and  my  maister  with  Philip  and  Franke.  66 

M.  Gou.    Why,  wherefore  is  sir  Raphe  so  late  abroade  ? 

Wil.  Why,  he  ment  to  kill  a  buck,  —  He  say  so  to  save  his 
honestie,  but  my  Nan  was  his  marke  \_Aside~\  —  and  when3  he  sent 
me  for  his  bow,  and  when  I  came,  I  hollod  for  him  ;  but  I  never 
saw  such  luck  to  misse  him,  it  hath  almost  made  me  mad.  71 

M.  Bar.    Well,  stay  with  us  ;  perhaps  sir  Raphe  and  he 
Will  come  anon  :   harke  !   I  do  heere  one  hollo. 


Enter  PHILLIP    \from  the 

Phil.    Is  this  broad  waking  in  a  winters  night  ? 

I  am  broad  walking  in  a  winters  night,  —  75 

Broad  indeed,  because  I  am  abroad,  — 
But  these  broad  fields  methinks  are  not  so  broad 
That  they  may  keepe  me  foorth  of  narrow  ditches. 
Heers  a  hard  world  ! 

For  I  can  hardly  keep  myself  upright  in  it  :  80 

I  am  marvellous  dutifull  —  but,  so  ho  ! 

Wil.    So  ho  ! 

Phil.    Whose  there  ? 

Wil.    Heeres  Will. 

Ph.    What,  Will!   how  scapst  thou  ?  85 

Wil.    What,  sir  ? 

Ph.    Nay,  not  hanging,  but  drowning  :   wert  thou  in  a  pond  or  a 
ditche  ? 

1  So  Q  a.     Q  i  «a.'  2  Eds.,  '  foundst.' 


618      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 


il.'  A  pestilence  on   it!   ist  you,  Phillip?   no,  faith,  I  was  but 
clurty  a  little  :   but  heeres  one  or  two  askt  for  yee.  90 

Phil.    Who  be  they,  man  ? 

M.  Bar.    Philip,  tis  I  and  maister  Goursey. 

Phi.    Father,  O  father,  I  have  heard  them  say 
The  dayes  of  ignorance  are  past  and  done  ; 

But  I  am  sure  the  nights  of  ignorance  95 

Are  not  yet  past,  for  this  is  one  of  them. 
But  wheres  my  sister  ? 

M.  Ear.    Why,  we  cannot  tell. 

Ph.    Wheres  Francis  ? 

M.  Gour.    Neither  saw  we  him.  IOO 

Phi.    Why,  this  is  fine. 
What,  neither  he  nor  I,  nor  she  nor  you, 
Nor  I  nor  she,  nor  you  and  I,  till  *  now, 
Can  meet,  could  meet,  or  nere,  I  thinke,  shall  meete  ! 
Cal  ye  this  woing  ?   no,  tis  Christmas  sport  105 

Of  Hob  man  blind  :  2  all  blind,  all  seek  to  catch, 
All  misse,  —  but  who  comes  heere  ?  3 

Enter  FRANKE  and  bis  BOYE  ^with  torcU\  . 

Fra.    O,  have  I  catcht  yee,  sir?   it  was  your  dooing 
That  made  me  have  this  pretty  daunce  to  night; 
Had  not  you  spoake,  my  mother  had  not  scard  me:  110 

But  I  will  swinge  ye  for  it. 

Phil.    Keepe  the  kings  peace  ! 

Fran.    How  !   art  thou  become  a  constable  ? 
Why,  Phillip,  where  hast  thou  bin  all  this  while  ? 

Ph.    Why,  where  you  were  not  :  but,  I  pray,  whers  my  sister  ? 

Fran.    Why,  man,  I  saw  her  not;   but  I  have  sought  her         116 
As  I  should  seeke  - 

Phil.    A  needle,  have  yee  not  ? 
Why,  you,  man,  are  the  needle  that  she  seekes 
To  worke  withall.      Well,  Francis,  do  you  hccre  ?  120 

1  O  i,  tell.  -  Blind-man's-buff. 

:!  O  2  prints  1.  10^  as  of  fourteen  syllables  ending  with    "  Hob  man  blind,"  and  line  106 
as  of   twelve  syllables  ending  with  "  heere." 


xm]  angry   women   of  Abington  619 

You  must  not  answere  so,  that  you  have  sought  her; 
But  have  yee  found  her  ?   faith,  and  if  you  have, 
God  give  yee  joy  of  that  ye  found  with  her  ! 

Fra.1    I  saw  her  not :   how  could  I  finde  her  ? 

M.  Gou.    Why,  could  yee  misse  from  maister  Barnses  house 
Unto  his  cunnyberry  ?  1 26 

Fran.    Whether  I  could  or  no,  father,  I  did. 

Phil.  Father,  I  did  !  well,  Franke,  wilt  thou  beleeve  me, 
Thou  dost  not  know  how  much  this  same  doth  greeve  me  : 
Shall  it  be  said  thou  mist  so  plaine  a  way,  130 

When  as  so  faire  a  wenche  did  for  thee  stay  ? 

Fra.    Sownes,  man  ! 

Phi.    Sownes,  man  !   and  if  thou  hadst  bin  blinde, 
The  cunny-borow  thou  needst  must  finde. 

I  tell  thee,  Francis,  had  it  bin  my  case,  135 

And  I  had  bin  a  woer  in  thy  place, 
I  would  have  laide  my  head  unto  the  ground, 
And  sented  out  my  wenches  way,  like  a  hound  ; 
I  would  have  crept  upon  my  knees  all  night, 

And  have  made  the  flint  stones  linckes  to  give  me  light.  140 

Nay,  man,  I  would 

Fran.    Good  Lord,  what  you  would  doe  ! 
Well,  we  shall  see  one  day  how  you  can  woe. 

M.  Gor.    Come,  come,  we  see  that  we  have  all  bin  crost; 
Therefore  lets  go,  and  seeke  them  we  have  lost.  Exeunt. 

[Scene  Thirteenth.      The  Samef\ 

Enter  MAL. 

[Afo/].    Am  I  alone?   doth  not  my  mother  come? 
Her  torch  I  see  not,  which  I  well  might  see, 
If  any  way  she  were  comming  toward  me: 
Why,  then,  belike  shees  gone  some  other  way  ; 
And  may  she  go  till  I  bid  her  turne  !  5 

1  So  Q  i.      Q  i  omits. 

-  E.  makes  this  'Act  v.,  Sc.   i,    In  the    Fields'  ;   but  Sir  Raph  frequents  the  grove,  and 
Mall  takes  it  in  her  flight  across  the  fields  from  the  cunny  greene. 


6 20      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Farre  shall  her  way  be  then,  and  little  faire, 

For  she  hath  hindered  me  of  my  good  turne  ; 

God  send  her  wet  and  wearie  ere  she  turne  ! 

I  had  beene  at  Oxenford,  and  to  morrow 

Have  beene  releast  from  all  my  maidens  sorrow,  10 

And  tasted  joy,  had  not  my  mother  bin  ; 

God,  I  beseech  thee,  make  it  her  worst  sinne  ! 

How  many  maides  this  night  lyes  in  their  beds, 

And  dreame  that  they  have  lost  their  maidenheads  ! 

Such  dreames,  such  slumbers  I  had  to[o]  enjoyde,  15 

If  waking  mallice  had  not  them  destroide. 

A  starved  man  with  double  death  doth  dye, 

To  have  the  meate  might  save  him  in  his  eye, 

And  may  not  have  it:   so  am  I  tormented, 

To  starve  for  joy  I  see,  yet  am  prevented.  20 

Well,  Franke,  although  thou  woedst  and  quickly  wonne, 

Yet  shall  my  love  to  thee  be  never  done  ; 

He  run  through  hedge  and  ditch,  through  brakes  and  briers, 

To  come  to  thee,  sole  lord  of  my  desires  : 

Short  woing  is  the  best,  an  houre,  not  yeares,  25 

For  long  debating  love  is  full  of  feares. 

But,  hearke  !   I  heare  one  tread.      O,  wert  my  brother, 

Or  Franke,  or  any  man,  but  not  my  mother  ! 

[E/iter  SIR   RATH   SMITH  from   the  fields."^ 

S.  Rap.    O,  when  will  this  same  yeare  of  night  have  end  ? 
Long  lookt  for  daies  sunne,  when  wilt  thou  ascend  ?  30 

Let  not  this  theefe  friend,  misty  vale  *  of  night, 
Incroach  on  day,  and  shadow  thy  faire  light, 
Whilst  thou  com'st  tardy  from  thy  Thetes  bed, 
Blushing  foorth,  golden  haire  and  glorious  red  ; 

O,  stay  not  long,  bright  lanthorne  of  the  day,  35 

To  light  my  mist  way2  feete  to  my  right  way  ! 

Mall.    It  is  a  man,  his  big  voice  tcls  me  so, 
Much  am  I  not  acquainted  with  it  tho  ; 
And  yet  mine  care,  sounds  true  distinguisher, 

1  veil.  -  missed- way. 


xm]  angry   women   of  Abington  621 

Boyes  1  that  I  have  been  more  familiar  40 

With  it  then  now  I  am  :   well,  I  doe  judge, 

It  is  not  envies  fellon,  not  of  grudge'-; 

Therefore  He  plead  acquaintance,  hyer  his  guiding, 

And  buy  of  him  some  place  of  close  abiding, 

Till  that  my  mothers  mallice  be  expired,  4  5 

And  we  may  joy  in  that  is  long  desired  [Aside] .  — 

Whose  there  ? 

Ra.  Are  ye  a  maide  ?  —  No  question  this  is  she 
My  man  doth  misse  :  faith,  since  she  lights  on  me, 
I  doe  not  meane  till  day  to  let  her  goe  ;  50 

For  what3  she  is  my  mans  love  I  will  know  \Aside\.  — 

Harke  ye,  mayde,  if  mayde,  are  ye  so  light 
That  you  can  see  to  wander  in  the  night  ? 

Mai.    Harke  ye,  true  man,  if  true,  I  tell  you,  no; 
I  cannot  see  at  all  which  way  I  goe.  55 

Ra.    Fayre  mayde,  ist  so  ?   say,  had  ye  nere  a  fall  ? 

Mai.    Fayre  man,  not  so ;   no,  I  had  none  at  all. 

Ra.    Could  you  not  stumble  on  one  man,  I  pray  ? 

Mai.    No,  no  such  blocke  till  now  came  in  my  way. 

Ra.    Am  I  that  blocke,  sweete  tripe  ?   then,  fall  and  try.  60 

Ma.    The  grounds  too  hard  a  feather-bed  ;   not  I. 

Ra.    Why,  how  and  you  had  met  with  such  a  stumpe  ? 

Mai.    Why,  if  he  had  been  your  height,  I  meant  to  jumpe. 

Ra.    Are  ye  so  nimble  ? 

Mai.    Nimble  as  a  doe.  65 

Ra.    Backt  in  a  pye. 

Mai.    Of  ye. 

Ra.    Good  meate  ye  know. 

Mall.    Ye  hunt  sometimes  ? 

Ra.    I  do.  70 

Mai.    What  take  ye  ? 

Ra.    Deare. 

Mall.    You'l  nere  strike  rascall4? 

1  (I  suppose)  Buoys.      Dyce. 

2  So  Qtos.      Dy. :  qy.  'fellow?'      H.  followed  by  K.,    "It  is  no  envious  fellow,  out  of 
grudge."  "  So  ytos.  =:  'why.'      H.  and  K.  read  '  whe'er,'  unnecessarily. 

4  a  deer  lean  and  out  of  season.      Dyce. 


622      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Ra.    Yes,  when  ye  are  there. 

Mai.    Will  ye  strike  me  ?  75 

Rap.    Yes:   will  ye  strike  againe  P1 

Mall.    No,  sir ;   it  fits  not  maides  to  fight  with  men. 

Ra.    I  wonder,  wench,  how  I  thy  name  might  know. 

Mall.    Why,  you  may  finde  it,  sir,  in  the  Christcrosse  row. 

Rap.    Be  my  schoolemistresse,  teach  me  how  to  spell  it.  80 

Mall.    No,  faith,  I  care  not  greatly  if  I  tell  it ; 
My  name  is  Marie  Barnes. 

Ra.    How,  wench  ?   Mall  Barnes ! 

Mai.    The  verie  same. 

Rap.    Why,  this  is  strange.  85 

Mai.    I  pray,  sir,  whats  your2  name? 

Raph.    Why,  sir  Raph  Smith  doth  wonder,  wench,  at  this  ; 
Why,  whats  the  cause  thou  art  abroad  so  late  ? 

Mai.    What,  sir  Raph  Smith  !   nay,  then,  I  will  disclose 
All  the  hole  cause  to  him,  in  him  repose  90 

My  hopes,  my  love  :   God  him,  I  hope,  did  send 
Our  loves  and  both  our  mothers  hates  to  end.  \_Aside~\.  — 

Gentle  sir  Raph,  if  you  my  blush  might  see, 
You  then  would  say  I  am  ashamed  to  be 

Found,  like  a  wandring  stray,  by  such  a  knight,  95 

So  farre  from  home  at  such  a  time  of  night : 
But  my  excuse  is  good  ;   love  first  by  fate 
Is  crost,  controulde,3  and  sundered  by  fell  hate. 
Franke  Goursey  is  my  love,  and  he  loves  me  ; 

But  both  our  mothers  hate  and  disagree;  100 

Our  fathers  like  the  match  and  wish  it  don; 
And  so  it  had,  had  not  our  mothers  come; 
To  Oxford  we  concluded  both  to  go  ; 
Going  to  meete,  they  came  ;   we  parted  so  ; 

My  mother  followed  me,  but  I  ran  fast,  105 

Thinking  who  went  from  hate  had  need  make  hast ; 
Take  me  she  cannot,  though  she  still  persue  : 
But  now,  sweet  knight,  I  do  repose  on  you  ; 

1  It  has  not  seemed  necessary  to  indicate  that  11.  64,  65,  66-68,  etc.,  constitute  verses; 
so  in  nearly  every  scene.  2  Q  z,  oyure.  8  See  note  on  F.  B.,  i.    142. 


xiv]  angry   women   of  Abington  623 

Be  you  my  orator  and  plead  my  right, 

And  get  me  one  good  day  for  this  had  night.  IIO 

Ra.    Alas,  good  heart,  I  pitty  thy  hard  hap  ! 
And  He  employ  all  that  I  may  for  thec. 
Franke  Goursey,  wench  !   I  do  commend  thy  choyse : 
Now  I  remember  I  met  one  Francis, 

As  I  did  seeke  my  man,  —  then,  that  was  he,—  115 

And  Philip  too,  —  belike  that  was  thy  brother: 
Why,  now  I  find  how  I  did  loose  myself, 
And  wander  1  up  and  down,  mistaking  so. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Mall :   I  will  never  leave 

Till  I  have  made  your  mothers  friends  againe,  I2O 

And  purchast  to  ye  both  your  hearts  delight, 
And  for  this  same  one  bad  many  a  good  night. 
Twill  not  be  long  ere  that  Aurora  will, 
Deckt  in  the  glory  of  a  goldon  sunne, 

Open  the  christall  windowes  of  the  east,  125 

To  make  the  earth  enamourde  of  her2  face, 
When  we  shall  have  cleare  light  to  see  our  way  : 
Come;   night  being  done,  expect  a  happy  day.  Exeunt. 

[Scene  Fourteenth.     A  Hillside  in  the  Fields?] 

Enter  MISTRESSE   BARNES   \_witb  torcb~\. 

Mis.  Ba.    O,  what  a  race  this  peevish  girle  hath  led  me  ! 
How  fast  I  ran,  and  now  how  weary  I  am  ! 
I  am  so  out  of  breath  I  scarce  can  speake,  — 
What  shall  I  doe?  —  and  cannot  overtake  her. 

It  is4  late  and  darke,  and  I  am  far  from  home:  5 

May  there  not  theeves  lye  watching  heere  about, 
Intending  mischiefe  unto  them  they  meete  ? 
There  may  ;  and  I  am  much  affrayde  of  them, 
Being  alone  without  all  company. 

I  doc  repent  me  of  my  coming  foorth  ;  10 

And  yet  I  do  not,  —  they  had  else  beene  married, 

1  £)  i ,  -wandring.  8  E.  includes  with  preceding  scene. 

2  So  Dy.  and  other  cds.      ytos.,  'thy.'  *  Dy.,  '  'Tis.' 


624      A  pleasant    Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

And  that  I  would  not  for  ten  times  more  labour. 

But  what  a  winter  of  colde  feare  I  thole,1 

Freecing  my  heart,  least  danger  should  betide  me  ! 

What  shal  I  do  to  purchase  company?  15 

I  heare  some  hollow  here  about  the  fields  : 

Then  here  He  set  my  torch  upon  this  hill, 

Whose  light  shall  beacon-like  conduct  them  to  it ; 

They  that  have  lost  theyr  way,  seeing  a  light, 

For  it  may  be  scene  farre  off  in  the  night,  20 

Will  come  to  it.      Well,  here  He  lye  vnseene,2 

And  looke  who  comes,  and  chuse  my  company  : 

Perhaps  my  daughter  may  first  come  to  it.  [Retires  to  one  side.~] 

[Enter   MISTRESSE  GOURSEY.] 

Mi.  Gour.    Where  am  I  now  ?   nay,  where  was  I  even  now  ? 

Nor  now,  nor  then,  nor  where  I  shall  be,  know  I.  25 

I  thinke  I  am  going  home  :  I  may  as  well 

Be3  going  from  home;  tis  so  very  darke, 

I  cannot  see  how  to  direct  a  step. 

I  lost  my  man,  pursuing  of  my  sonne ; 

My  sonne  escapt  me  too  :  now,  all  alone,  30 

I  am  enforst 4  to  wander  up  and  downe. 

Barnses  wife's  abroad  :  pray  God,  that  she 

May  have  as  good  a  daunce,  nay,  ten  times  worse  ! 

Oh,  but  I  feare  she  hath  not  ;  she  hath  light 

To  see  her  way.      O,  that  some5  bridge  would  breake,  35 

That  she  might  fall  into  some  deep  digd  ditch, 

And  eyther  breake  her  bones  or  drowne  her  selfe  ! 

I  would  these  mischiefes  I  could  wish  to  her 

Might  light  on  her  !  —  but,  soft ;  I  see  a  light : 

I  will  go  neere  ;   tis  comfortable,  40 

After  this  nights  sad  spirits  dulling6  darknes. 

How  now  ?   what,  is  it  set  to  keep  it  selfe? 

Mis.  Bar.    A  plague  ont,  is  she  there?  \_AsiJe. ~\ 

Mis.  Gou.    O,  how  it  cheares  and  quickens  up  my  thoughts  ! 


same. 


1  So  Dy.,  etc.,  i.e.  suffer.      Qtos.,  stole.  3  (,)   i,   Bring.  5 

2  The  order  of  11.  20-21  is  reversed  in  Q  2.  *  {,)  I ,  enj'orc'st.  c  spirit-dulling. 


xiv]  angry   women   of  Abi?igton  625 


Mh.  Bar.    O,  that  it  were  the  besseliskies  fell  eye,  45 

To  poyson  thee  !  [Aside.  ~\ 

Ml.  Gou.    I  care  not  if  I  take  it,  — 
Sure  none  is  here  to  hinder  me,  — 
And  light  me  home. 

Ml.  Bar.    I  had  rather  she  were  hangd  50 

Then  I  should  set  it  there  to  doe  her  good.  [Aside.} 

Mh.  Go.    I  faith,  I  will. 

Mi.  Ba.    I  faith,  you  shall  not,  mistresse  ; 
He  venter  a  burnt  finger  but  He  have  it.  [Aside.  ,] 

Mi.  Gou.    Yet  Barnses  wife  would  chafe,  if  that  she  knew        55 
That  I  had  this  good  lucke  to  get  a  light. 

Mi.  Ba.    And  so  she  doth;  but  praise  your1  lucke  at  parting. 

[Aside.'} 

Mi.  Go.    O,  that  it  were2  her  light,  good  faith,  that  she 
Might  darkling  walke  about  as  well  as  I  ! 

Ali.  Ba.    O,  how  this  mads  me,  that  she  hath  her  wish  !    [Aside.} 

Mi.  Go.    How  I  would  laugh  to  see  her  trot  about  !  61 

Mi.  Bar.    Oh,  I  could  cry  for  anger  and  for  rage  !  [Aside.} 

Mi.  Go.    But  who  should  set  it  here,  I  marvel,  a  Gods  name. 

Mi.  Bar.    One  that  will  hav'te  from  you,  in  the  devils  name. 

[Aside.'] 

Mi.  Go.    He  lay  my  life  that  it  was  Barnses  sonne.  65 

Mi.  Ba.    No,  forsooth,  it  was  Barnses  wife. 

[Advancing  to  seize  torch.} 

Mi.  Gou.    A  plague  upon  her,  how  she  made  me  start  !     [Aside}.  — 
Mistresse,  let  go  the  torch.  [They  struggle  for  it.} 

Mis.  Bar.    No,  but  I  will  not. 

Mis.  Gou.    He  thrust  it  in  thy  face,  then.  70 

Mi.  Bar.    But  you  shall  not. 

Mi.  Gou.    Let  go,  I  say. 

Mi.  Ba.    Let  you  go,  for  tis  mine. 

Mis.  Go.    But  my  possession  sales,  it  is  none  of  thine. 

Mi.  Bar.    Nay,  I  have  holde  too.  75 

Mi.  Gou.    Well,  let  go  thy  hold,3  or  I  will  spurn  thee. 

Mi.  Bar.    Do  •,  I  can  spurne  thee  too. 

1  So  Q  I.      {,)  2,  you.  2  Q  i,  -weere.  8  Eds.  divide  line  here. 


6 26      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Ml.  Go.    Canst  thou  ? 
Mi.  Ba.    I,  that  I  can. 

Enter  MASTER   GOURSEY  and  BARNES. 

M.  Gate.    Why,  how  now,  woman  ? J  how  unlike  to  women      80 
Are  ye  both  now  !  come,  part,  come,  part,  I  say. 

M.  Ba.    Why,  what  immodesty  is2  this  in  you  ! 
Come,  part,  I  say  ;  fie,  fie. 

Ml.  Ba.    Fie,  fie  !   I  say,  she  shall  not  have  my  torch.  — 
Give  me  thy  torch,  boy  :  —  I  will  run  a  tilt,  85 

And  burne  out  both  her  eyes  in  my  encounter. 

Ml.  Go.    Give  roome,  and  lets  have  this  hot  cariere.3 

M.  Go.    I  say,  ye  shall  not :  wife,  go  to,  tame  your  thoughts 
That  are  so  mad  with  fury. 

M.  Ba.    And,  sweet  wife,  90 

Temper  your  rage  with  patience ;  do  not  be 
Subject  so  much  to  such  misgovernment. 

Ml.  Bar.    Shal  I  not,  sir,  when  such  a  strumpet  wrongs  me  ? 

M.  Go.    How,  strumpet,  mistris  Barnes  !   nay,  I  pray,  harke  ye  : 
I  oft  indeed  have  heard  you  call  her  so,  95 

And  I  have  thought  upon  it,  why  ye  should 
Twit  her  with  name  of  strumpet ;  do  you  know 
Any  hurt  by  her,  that  you  terme  her  so  ? 

M.  Ba.    No,  on  my  life  ;  rage  onely  makes  her  say  so. 

M.   Go.   [with  pretended  suspicion] .    But   I    would   know   whence 
this  same  rage  should  come;  100 

Whers  smoke,  theres  fire;  and  my  heart  misgives 
My  wives  intemperance  hath  got  that  name  ;  — 
And,  mistresse  Barnes,  I  doubt  and  shrewdly  4  aoubt, 
And  some  great  cause  begets  this  doubt  in  me, 
Your  husband  and  my  wife  doth  wrong  us  both.  105 

M.  Ba.   \ivitb  assumed  Indignation^.    How!    thinke  ye   so?   nay, 

master  Goursey,  then, 
You  run  in  debt  to  my  opinion, 
Because  you  pay  not  such  advised  wisedome 
As  I  thinke  due  unto  my  good  conceit. 

1  So  Q  2.      Eds.,  '  women.'          -  O  2,  it.  s  Otos.,  carerie.  4  Q  I,  'shrewdly.' 


xiv]  angry  women   of  Abington  627 

M.  Go.  [angrily].    Then  still  I  feare  I  shall  your  debter  proove. 

[M.  Bar.'].1    Then  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  love; 
Not  bale,  but  present  answere  to  my  plea ;  I  I  2 

And  in  the  court  of  reason  we  will  try 
If  that  good  thoughts  should  beleeve  jelousie. 

[They  make  as  if  they  were  fighting."] 

[Enter  PHILLIP,  FRANK,  COOMES,  &f. ] 

Phil.    Why,  looke  you,  mother,  this  is  long  of  you.  —  I  15 

For  Gods  sake,  father,  harke  !  why,  these  effects 
Come  still  from  womens  malice:  part,  I  pray. — 
Comes,  Wil,  and  Hodge,  come  all,  and  helpe  us  part  them  !  — 

[  They  try  to  part  the  combatants. 
Father,  but  heare  me  speake  one  word,  no  more. 

Franke.    Father,  but  heare  me2  speake,  then  use  your  will.     120 

Phil.    Crie  peace  betweenc  ye  for  a  little  while. 

Mi.    Gou.    [fulling  her  husband  off^ .    Good   husband,  heare  him 
speake. 

Mis.  Bar.  [pulling  at  hers] .    Good  husband,  heare  him. 

Coom.  [pulling  at  GOURSEY]  .  Maister,  heare  him  speake ;  hees  a 
good  wise  young  stripling  for  his  yeeres,  I  tell  ye,  and  perhaps  may 
speake  wiser  then  an  elder  body  ;  therefore  heare  him.  126 

Hod.  Master,  heare,  and  make  an  end  ;  you  may  kil  one  another 
in  jest,  and  be  hanged  in  earnest.  [He  parts  them.] 

M.    Go.    Come,    let    us    heare    him.  —  Then,    speake    quickly, 
Phillip.  129 

M.  Ba.    Thou  shouldst  have  done  ere  this  ;  speak,  Phil,  speak. 

Mis.  Bar.    O  Lord,  what  haste  you  make  to  hurt  your  selves  !  — 
Good  Phillip,  use  some  good  perswasions 
To  make  them  friends. 

Phi.    Yes,  He  doe  what  I  can.— 

Father,  and  master  Goursey,  both  attend.  135 

It  is  presumption  in  so  young  a  man 
To  teach  where  he  might  learne,  or  [to]  3  dere& 

1  So  Dyce.      £)tos.  assign  to  Goursey.      Perhaps  Barnes  lays  his  hand  on  Goursey  who  shakes 
it  off.      A  scuffle  appears  to  ensue  :   cf.  11.   161-163. 

2  So  Q  2.      But  {,)  i,  '  him,'  which  l)y.,  etc.,  for  no  sufficient  reason  prefer. 
8  So  Dy.      ytos.,  be. 


6 28      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the   two        [sc. 

Where  he  hath  had  direction  ;   but  in  duety 

He  may  perswade  as  long  as  his  perswase 

Is  backt  with  reason  and  a  rightfull  sute.  140 

Phisickes  first  rule  is  this,  as  I  have  learned, 

Kill  the  effect  by  cutting  of  the  cause  :  * 

The  same  effects  of  ruffin  outrages 

Comes  by  the  cause  of  mallice  in  your  wives ; 

Had  not  they  two  bin  foes,  you  had  bin  friends,  145 

And  we  had  bin  at  home,  and  this  same  war 

In  peacefull  sleep  had  nere  bin  dreamt  upon.— 

Mother,  and  mistresse  Goursey,  to  make  them  friends, 

Is  to  be  friends  your  selves  :   you  are  the  cause, 

And  these  effects  proceed,  you  know,  from  you;  150 

Your  hates  give  life  unto  these  killing  strifes, 

But  dye  and  if  that  envy  dye  in  you.  — 

^The  fathers  make  as  if  to  renew  the  combat. ~\ 

Fathers,  yet  stay.  —  O,  speake  !  —  O,  stay  a  while  !  —  \Tbey  desist.] 
Francis,  perswade  thy  mother.  —  Maister  Goursey, 
If  that  my  mother  will  resolve2  your  minde3  155 

That  tis  but  meere  suspect,  not  common  proofe, 
And  if  my  father  sweares  hees  innocent, 
As  I  durst  pawne  my  soule  with  him  he  is, 
And  if  your  wife  vow  truth  and  constancy, 
Will  you  be  then  perswaded  ?  160 

M.  Gou.     Phillip,  if  thy  father  will  remit 
The  wounds  I  <jave  him,  and  if  these  conditions 

O  ' 

May  be  performde,  I  bannish  all  my  wrath. 

M.  Bar.    And  if  thy  mother  will  but  cleere  me,  Phillip, 
As  I  am  ready  to  protest  I  am,  165 

Then  master  Goursey  is  my  friend  againe. 

Phi.    Harke,  mother ;   now  you  heare  that  your  desires 
May  be  accomplished  ;   they  will  both  be  friends, 
If  you'l  performe  these  easie4  articles. 

Mi.  Ba.    Shall  I  be  friends  with  such  an  enemy  ?  I  70 

Phil.    What  say  you  unto  my  perswase  ? 

Mi.  Ba.    I  say  shees  my  deadly  encmie. 

1  Cf.   F.B.,  viii.  75.         -  convince.         3  So  Dy.    Qtos.,  mindcs.      4  So  {,)   I .     Q  2  omits. 


xiv]  angry   women   of  Abington  629 

Phil.    I,  but  she  will  be  your  friend,  if  you  revolt.1 

Ml.  Ba.    The  words  I  said  !   what,  shall  I  eate  a  truth  ? 

Phi.    Why,  harke  ye,  mother.  175 

Fra.    Mother,  what  say  you  ? 

Mis.  Go.    Why,  this  I  say,  she  slaundered  my  good  name. 

Fra.    But  if  she  now  denie  it,  tis  no  defame. 

Ml.  Go.    What,  shall  I  thinke  her  hate  will  yeeld  so  much  ? 

Fra.    Why,  doubt  it  not;   her  spirit  may  be  such.  180 

M.  Go.  [Impatient  for  the  reconciliation.^     Why,  will  it  be? 

Phi.    Yet  stay,  I  have  some  hope. 
Mother,  why,  mother,  why,  heare  ye.2 
Give  me  your  hand  ;   it  is  no  more  but  thus  ; 

Tis  easie  labour  to  shake  hands  with  her:  185 

A3  little  breath  is  spent  in  speaking  of  faire  words, 
When  wrath  hath  violent  deliveries.4 

M.  Bar.    What,  shall  we  be  resolved  ?     [As  if  to  renew  the  fray.~\ 

Mi.  Bar.    O  husband,  stay  !—  [Stepping  between  them.] 

Stay,  maister  Goursey  :   though  your  wife  doth  hate  me,  190 

And  beares  unto  me  mallice  infinite 
And  endlesse,  yet  I  will  respect  your  safeties  ; 
I  would  not  have  you  perish  by  our  meanes  : 
I  must  confesse  that  onely  suspect, 
And  no  proofe  els,  hath  fed  my  hate  to  her.  195 

Ml.  Gour.    And,  husband,  I  protest  by  heaven  and  earth 
That  her  suspect  is  causles  and  unjust, 
And  that  I  nere  had  such  a  vilde  intent ; 
Harme  she  imaginde,  where  as  none  was  ment. 

Phil.    Loe,  sir,  what  would  yee  more  ?  200 

M.  Bar.    Yes,  Phillip,  this  ; 
That  I  confirme  him  in  my  innocence 
By  this  large  universe. 

M.  Gour.  [with  show  of  continue d  irnpa tience. ]     By  that  I  sweare, 
He  credit  none  of  you,  until  I  heere  205 

Friendship  concluded  straight  betwecne  them  two  : 

1  Qy->  revoke.     Cf.   F.  B.,  viii.   144,  n.  2  Dyce  thinks  something  has  dropt  out  here. 

•*  Ought  probably  to  be  omitted.       Dyce. 

4  So  <,)  2  ;   which  is  just  as  intelligible  as  the  '  dcliverie  '  of  Q  i  and  Eds. 


630      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

If  I  see  that  they  willingly  will  doe, 
Then  He  imagine  all  suspition  ends  ; 
I  may  be  then  assured,  they  being  friends. 

Phil.    Mother,  make  full  my  wish,  and  be  it  so.  210 

Mi.  Ear.    What,  shall  I  sue  for  friendship  to  my  foe  ? 

Phil.    No  :   if  she  yeeld,  will  you  ? 

Ml.  Ba.    It  may  be,  I. 

Phil.    Why,  this  is  well.      The  other  I  will  trie.  — 
Come,  mistresse  Goursey,  do  you  first  agree.  215 

Mi.  Gour.    What,  shall  I  yeeld  unto  mine  enemie  ? 

Phil.    Why,  if  she  will,  will  you  ? 

Mi.  Gou.    Perhaps  I  will. 

Phil.    Nay,  then,  I  finde  this  goes  well  forward  still. 
Mother,  give  me  your  hand,  —  give  me  yours  to[o];  220 

Be  not  so  loath  ;   some  good  thing  I  must  do  ; 
But  lay  your  torches  by,  I  like  not  them  ; 
Come,  come,  deliver  them  unto  your  men  : 
Give  me  your  hands.  — So,  now,  sir,  heere  I  stand, 
Holding  two  angrie  women  in  my  hand  :  225 

And  I  must  please  them  both  ;   I  could  please  tone,1 
But  it  is  hard  when  there  is  two  to  one, 
Especially  of  women  ;   but  tis  so, 
They  shall  be  pleasd  whether  they  will  or  no.  — 
Which  will  come  first  ?   what,  both  give  back  !   ha,  neither!        230 
Why,  then,  yond  may  helpe  that  come  both  together.2 
So,  stand  still,  stand3  but  a  little  while, 
And  see  how  I  your  angers  will  beguile. 
Well,  yet  there  is  no  hurt ;  whv,  then,  let  me 

Joyne  these  two  hands,  and  see  how  theil  agree:      [They  kiss.~\    235 
Peace,  peace  !  they  crie  ;  looke  how  they  friendly  kisse  ! 
Well,  all  this  while  there  is  no  harme  in  this  : 
Are  not  these  two  twins  ?   twins  should  be  both  alike, 
If  tone  speakes  faire,  the  tother  should  not  strike  : 
Jesus,  these  warriours  will  not  offer  blowes  !  240 

1  the   one. 

*  H.  and  E.  change,  unnecessarily,  to  "yond  help  that  both  may  come  together." 

3  Qy-  >  sta"d  still  :      Dyce. 


xiv]  angry   women   of  Abington          631 

Why,  then,  tis  strange  that  you  two  should  be  foes. 

O,  yes,  youle  say,  your  weapons  are  your  tongues ; 

Touch  lip  with  lip,  and  they  are  bound  from  wrongs  : 

Go  to,  imbrace,  and  say,  if  you  be  friends, 

That  heere  the  angrie  womens  quarrels  ends.      [They  embrace."]    245 

Mi.  Gou.    Then  hecre  it  ends,  if  mistres  Barnes  say  so. 

Mi.  Bar.    If  you  say,  I,  I  list  not  to  say,  no. 

M.  Gou.    If  they  be  friends,  by  promise  we  agree. 

M.  Bar.    And  may  this  league  of  friendship  ever  be  ! 

Phil.    What  saist  thou,  Franke  ?   doth  not  this  fall  out  well  ?   250 

Fran.    Yes,  if  my  Mall  were  heere,  then  all  were  well. 

Enter  SIR   RAPHE  SMITH  with  MALL   [who  stands  aside]. 

Raph.    Yonder  they  be,  Mall  :  stay,  stand  close,  and  stur  not, 
Untill  I  call.  —  God  save  yee,  gentlemen  ! 

M.  Bar.    What,  sir  Raph  Smith  !  you  are  a  welcome  man  : 
We  wondred  when  we  heard  you  were  abroad.  255 

Raph.    Why,  sir,  how  heard  yee  that  I  was  abroad  ? 

M.  Bar.    By  your  man. 

Raph.    My  man  !   where  is  he  ? 

Will.    Heere. 

Raph.    O,  yee  are  a  trustie  squire  !  260 

Nic.    It  had  bin  better,  and  he  had  said,  a  sure  carde. 

Phil.    Why,  sir  ? 

Nic.    Because  it  is  the  proverbe. 

Phil.    Away,  yee  asse  ! 

Nic.    An  asse  goes  a  foure  legs  ;  I  go  of  two,  Christ  crosse.        265 

Phi.    Hold  your  tongue. 

Nic.    And  make  no  more  adoe. 

M.  Gou.    Go  to,  no  more  adoe.  —  Gentle  sir  Raphe, 
Your  man  is  not  in  fault  for  missing  you, 
For  he  mistooke  by  us,  and  we  by  him.  270 

Raph.    And  I  by  you  ;   which  now  I  well  perceive. 
But  tell  me,  gentlemen,  what  made  yee  all 
Be  from  your  beds. this  night,  and  why  thus  late 
Are  your  wives  walking  heere  about  the  fields  : J 


632      A  pleasant   Comedie   of  the  two        [sc. 

Tis  strange  to  see  such  women  of  accoumpt  275 

Heere;   but  I  gesse  some  great  occasion. 

M.  Gour.    Faith,  this  occasion,  sir  :   women  will  jarre  •, 
And  jarre  they  did  to  day,  and  so  they  parted ; 
We  knowing  womens  mallice  let  alone 

Will,  canker  like,  eate  farther  in  their  hearts,  280 

Did  seeke  a  sodaine  cure,  and  thus  it  was, — 
A  match  betweene  his  daughter  and  my  sonne : 
No  sooner  motioned  but  twas  agreed, 
And  they  no  sooner  saw  but  wooed  and  likte  : 
They  have  it  sought  to  crosse,  and  crosse  it  thus.  285 

Rap.    Fye,  mistresse  Barnes,  and  mistresse  Goursey  both ; 
The  greatest  sinne  wherein  your  soules  may  sinne, 
I  thinke,  is  this,  in  crossing  of  true  love  : 
Let  me  perswade  yee. 

Mi.  Bar.    Sir,  we  are  perswaded,  290 

And  I  and  mistresse  Goursey  are  both  friends; 
And,  if  my  daughter  were  but  found  againe, 
Who  now  is  missing,  she  had  my  consent 
To  be  disposd  off  to  her  owne  content. 

Rapb.    I  do  rejoyce  that  what  I  thought  to  doe,  295 

Ere  I  begin,  I  finde  already  done  : 
Why,  this  will  please  your  friends  at  Abington.  — 
Franke,  if  thou  seekst  that  way,  there  thou  shalt  finde 
Her,  whom  I  holde  the  comfort  of  thy  minde. 

Mall,  [coming  forward\ .     He  shall  not  seeke   me  ;   I  will  seeke 
him  out,  300 

Since  of  my  mothers  graunt  I  need  not  doubt. 

Mi.  Ear.    Thy  mother  graunts,  my  girle,  and  she  doth  pray 
To  send  unto  you  both  a  joyfull  day  ! 

Hodg.  Nay,  mistresse  Barnes,  I  wish  her  better ;  that  those  joy- 
full  dayes  may  be  turned  to  joyfull  nights.  305 

Coom.  Faith,  tis  a  pretty  wench,  and  tis  pitty  but  she  should 
have  him. 

Nich.  And,  mistresse  Mary,  when  yee  go  to  bed,  God  send  you 
good  rest,  and  a  peck  a  fleas  in  your  nest,  every  one  as  big  as 
Francis !  310 


xiv]  angry   women   of  Abington  633 

Phil.    Well  said,  wisdome :   God  send  thee  wise  children  ! 

Nich.    And  you  more  money. 

PhiL    I,  so  wish  I. 

Nich.    Twill  be  a  good  while  ere  you  wish  your  skin  full  of  ilet  holes. 

Phil.    Franke,  harke  ye  :  brother,  now  your  woings  doone,     315 
The  next  thing  now  you  do  is  for  a  sonne ; 
I  prithe,  for,  i  faith,  I  should  be  glad 
To  have  myselfe  cald  nunckle,  and  thou  dad.  — 
Well,  sister,  if  that  Francis  play  the  man, 

My  mother  must  be  grandam,  and  you  mam.—  320 

To  it,  Francis,  —  to  it,  sister  !  —  God  send  yee  joy  ! 
Tis  fine  to  sing,  "  dansey,  my  owne  sweete  boye !  " 

Fra.    Well,  sir,  jest  on. 

PhiL    Nay,  sir,1  do  you  jest  on. 

M.  Bar.    Well,  may  she  proove  a  happy  wife  to  him  !  325 

M.  Gou.    And  may  he  proove  as  happy  unto  her ! 

Raph.    Well,  gentlemen,  good  hap  betide  them  both  ! 
Since  twas  my  hap  thus  happily  to  meete, 
To  be  a  witnesse  of  this  sweete  contract, 

I  doe  rejoyce;  wherefore,  to  have  this  joye  330 

Longer  present  with  me,  I  do  request 
That  all  of  you  will  be  my  promist  guests  : 
This  long  nights  labour  dooth  desire  some  rest, 
Besides  this  wished  end  ;   therefore,  I  pray, 

Let  me  deteine  yee  but  a  dinner  time :  335 

Tell  me,  I  pray,  shall  I  obtaine  so  much  ? 

M.  Bar.    Gentle  sir  Raphe,  your  courtesie  is  such 
As  may  impose  commaund  unto  us  all ; 
We  will  be  thankfull  bolde  at  your  request. 

PhiL    I  pray,  sir  Raph,  what  cheere  shall  we  have?  340 

S.  Raph.    I  faith,  countrie  fare,  mutton  and  veale, 
Perchance  a  ducke  or  goose. 

Mai.    Oh,  I  am  sick  ! 

All.    How  now,  Mall  ?   whats  the  matter  ? 

Mai.    Father  and  mother,  if  you  needs  would  know,  345 

He  nam'd  a  goose,  which  is  my  stomacks  foe. 


634     Two  angry  women  of  Abington     [sc.  xiv] 

Phil.    Come,  come,  she  is  with  childe  of  some  od  jest, 
And  now  shees  sicke  till  that  she  bring  l  it  foorth. 

Mai.    A  jest,  quoth  you  !   well,  brother,  if  it  be, 
I  feare  twill  proove  an  earnest  unto  me.  —  350 

Goose,  said  ye,  sir  ?      Oh,  that  same  very  name 
Hath  in  it  much  variety  of  shame  ! 
Of  all  the  birds  that  ever  yet  was  scene, 
I  would  not  have  them  graze  upon  this  greene; 
I  hope  they  will  not,  for  this  crop  is  poore,  355 

And  they  may  pasture  upon  greater  store  : 
But  yet  tis  pittie  that  they  let  them  passe, 
And  like  a  common  bite  the  Muses  grasse. 
Yet  this  I  feare  ;   if  Franke  and  I  should  kisse, 

Some  creeking  goose  would  chide  us  with  a  hisse  :  360 

I  meane  not  that  goose  that  sings  it  knowes  not  what;2 
Tis  not  that  hisse  when  one  saies,  'hist,  come  hither'; 
Nor  that  same  hisse  that  setteth  dogges  together; 
Nor  that  same  hisse  that  by  a  fire  doth  stand, 

And  hisseth  T.  or  F.3  upon  the  hand  ;  365 

But  tis  a  hisse,  and  lie  unlace  my  cote, 
For  I  should  sound  4  sure,  if  I  heard  that  note, 
And  then  'greene  ginger  for  the  greene  goose'  cries, 
Serves  not  the  turne,  —  I  turn'd  the  white  of  eyes. 
The  rosa-so/is5  yet  that  makes  me  live  370 

Is  favour6  that  these  gentlemen  may  give; 
But  if  they  be  displeased,  then  pleasde  am  I, 
To  yeeld  my  selfe  a  hissing  death  to  dye  : 
Yet  I  hope  heeres  none  consents  to  kill, 

But  kindly  take  the  favour  of  good  will.  375 

If  any  thing  be  in  the  pen  to  blame, 
Then  here  stand  I  to  blush  the  writers  shame  : 
If  this  be  bad,  he  promises  a  better; 
Trust  him,  and  he  will  proove  a  right  true  debter.  \Exeunt.~\ 

1  Q  i ,  '  brings. '  , 

2  A  line,  which  rhymed  with  this  one,  has  dropt  out.     Dyce.      But  H.  begins  a  new  line 
with  '  Sings.' 

3  Traitor  or  Felon.     Dyce.  *  Swoon.  5  a  cordial.  6  Q  i,  '  favours.' 


H^illiam  Shakespeare 


AS   A    COMIC    DRAMATIST 


A  Monograph  by  Edward 
^owJen,  LL.D.,  Professor 
in  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 


SHAKESPEARE   AS   A    COMIC    DRAMATIST 

The  Essentials  of  Shakespearian  Comedy. — The  Comedies  of 
Shakespeare,  which  form  more  than  a  third  part  of  his  dramatic 
work,  belong  to  every  period  of  his  career  as  a  writer,  except  one. 
During  a  few  years,  soon  after  the  opening  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, he  turned  away  from  comedy,  or  rather  he  was  drawn  by 
some  irresistible  attraction  to  explore  the  tragic  depths  of  life,  and 
for  a  time  its  bright  or  variegated  surface  was  lost  to  view.  The 
results  of  his  passionate  inquisition  of  evil  entered  into  the  spirit 
of  his  latest  plays,  which  we  might  name  "romances"  rather  than 
"  comedies,"  and  hence  the  study  of  Shakespeare's  lighter  and 
brighter  work  cannot  be  wholly  dissociated  from  the  study  of  that 
in  which  terror  and  pity  are  the  presiding  powers. 

To  conceive  Shakespearian  comedy  aright  we  must  disconnect 
the  word  "comedy"  from  the  associations  derived  from  its  adjectives 
"  comic  "  and  "comical  " ;  we  must  recognize  the  fact  that,  though 
laughter  is  one  of  its  incidents,  laughter  is  not  its  end.  Our  chief 
living  master  of  the  carte  and  tierce  of  wit,  Mr.  George  Meredith, 
describes  folly  as  the  natural  prey  of  the  comic  spirit,  "  known  to 
it  in  all  her  transformations,  in  every  disguise;  and  it  is  with  the 
springing  delight  of  hawk  over  heron,  hound  after  fox,  that  it  gives 
her  chase,  never  fretting,  never  tiring,  sure  of  having  her,  allowing 
her  no  rest."  Shakespeare's  comedy  includes  the  intellectual  delight 
of  chasing  down  folly  and  being  in  at  the  death,  but  this  is  not  its 
main  purpose.  Nor  is  he  eager  to  assume  the  part  of  the  indignant 
moral  satirist.  It  is  not  he  but  Hen  Jonson,  in  the  person  of  Asper, 
who  announces  that  "  with  an  armed  and  resolved  hand  "  he  will 

"Strip  the  ragged  follies  of  their  time 
Naked  as  at  their  birth 

and  with  a  whip  of  steel 
Print  wounding  lashes  in  their  iron  ribs." 
637 


638       Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  D?~amatist 

Shakespeare  on  occasions  can  wield  the  whip  of  steel,  but  it  is 
when  for  a  time  he  parts  company  with  the  spirit  of  comedy. 
Moral  truth  radiates  through  all  the  world  of  his  creation,  but  he 
does  not  suppose  that  morality  is  served  by  being  outrageously 
moral ;  in  writing  comedy  he  has  more  faith  in  sunshine  as  a  sana- 
tive agent  than  in  lightning  and  tempest.  If  he  is  ever  contemptu- 
ous, it  is  because  the  pitifulness  of  such  a  baffled  pretender  as 
Parolles,  or  of  such  lean-witted  conspirators  as  Antonio  and  Sebas- 
tian, admits  of  no  other  feeling.  From  personal  satire  he,  unlike 
several  of  his  contemporaries,  whollv  abstained,  unless,  indeed,  the 
theory  holds  good,  which  finds  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  that  purge 
given  by  the  player  Shakespeare  —  so  Kempe  tells  Burbage  in  The 
Return  from  Parnassus  —  to  the  pestilent  fellow,  Ben  Jonson. 

Perhaps  it  is  impossible  to  include  under  any  single  general  con- 
ception works  which  differ  from  each  other  as  widely  as  The  Comedy 
of  Errors,  Measure  for  Measure,  and  The  Tempest;  but  if  we  cannot 
seize  it  as  a  whole,  we  may  see  from  a  little  distance  this  side  and 
that  of  comedy  as  understood  by  Shakespeare.  Its  vital  centre  is 
not  an  idea,  an  abstraction,  a  doctrine,  a  moral  thesis,  but  some- 
thing concrete — persons  involved  in  an  action.  When  philosophi- 
cal critics  assure  us  that  the  theme  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is 
expressed  by  the  words  Sumrnum  jus,  sununa  injuria,  or  that  it 
exhibits  "  man  in  relation  to  money,"  we  admire  the  motto  they 
discovered  in  their  nut,  and  prefer  the  kernel  in  our  own.  The 
persons  and  the  action  are  placed  in  some  region,  which  is  neither 
wholly  one  of  fantasy  nor  yet  one  encumbered  with  the  dross  of 
actuality.  Aery  spirits,  an  earth-born  Caliban,  Robingoodfellow, 
the  king  and  queen  of  Faery,  may  make  their  incursion  into  it,  yet 
it  is  in  the  truest  sense  the  haunt  and  home  of  "human  mortals." 
The  finer  spirit  of  the  poet's  own  age  is  forever  present,  but  he 
makes  no  laborious  effort  to  imitate  life  in  the  lower  sense  of  re- 
producing contemporary  manners.  He  turns  away  from  his  own 
country.  Once  —  by  command  —  Sir  John  Falstaff  makes  love  to 
the  laughing  bourgeois  wives  of  Windsor  ;  but  to  comply  with  the 
necessity  Shakespeare's  comedy  descends  from  verse  to  prose.  Ben 
Jonson's  invention  is  at  home  in  Cob's  Court  and  Picthatch,  in  the 
aisle  of  Paul's,  or  among  the  booths  of  Bartholomew  Fair;  having 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      639 

disguised  the  characters  of  his  first  important  play  under  Italian 
names,  he  rightly  christened  them  anew  as  Londoners.  Shake- 
speare's imagination,  throwing  off  the  burden  of  the  actual,  de- 
sported  itself  in  the  Athenian  moonlit  wood  and  on  the  yellow  sands 
of  the  enchanted  island,  under  green  boughs  in  Arden,  in  the  garden 
at  Belmont,  in  the  palace  of  Illyria,  at  the  shepherd's  festival  in 
Bohemia. 

The  action  corresponds  with  the  environment.  In  the  great 
tragedies  Shakespeare  may  on  rare  occasions  demand  certain  postu- 
lates at  the  outset.  These  having  been  granted,  the  plot  evolves 
itself  within  the  bounds  of  the  credible.  In  King  Lear  the  opening 
scene  puts  some  strain  upon  our  imaginative  belief,  but  Shakespeare 
received  the  legend  as  it  had  been  handed  down  to  him,  and  all  that 
follows  the  opening  scene  —  though  the  action  is  vast  and  monstrous 
—  obeys  an  order  and  logic  which  compel  our  acquiescence.  It 
is  not  always  so,  if  we  refuse  its  claims  to  fancy,  in  Shakespearian 
comedy.  In  a  region  which  borders  on  the  realm  of  fantasy  we 
must  be  prepared  to  accept  many  happy  surprises.  Our  desire  for 
happiness  inclines  our  hearts  to  a  pleasant  credulity  ;  if  chance  at 
the  right  moment  intervenes,  it  comes  as  our  own  embodied  hope. 
When  all  and  every  one  in  Arden  wood,  save  Jaques,  are  on  their 
way  to  wedlock,  like  couples  coming  to  the  ark,  we  are  not  disposed 
to  question  the  reality  of  that  old  religious  man  upon  the  borders 
of  the  forest  who  suddenly  converts  the  usurping  Duke,  and  turns 
back  the  mighty  power  which  he  had  set  on  foot.  We  are  grateful 
for  such  hermits  and  such  convertites. 

The  characters  again  correspond  in  comedy  with  the  environ- 
ment and  with  the  action.  In  tragedy  character  is  either  from  the 
first  fully  formed  and  four-square,  or,  if  it  is  developed  by  events, 
it  develops  in  accordance  with  an  internal  law.  Passion  runs  its 
inevitable  course,  like  a  great  wave  driven  of  the  wind,  and  breaks 
with  thunder  upon  the  shoal  of  death.  The  human  actors  disap- 
pear; only  the  general  order  of  the  world  and  the  eternal  moral 
law  endure.  But  in  comedy  the  individual  must  be  preserved,  and 
must  at  the  close  enter  into  possession  of  happy  days  ;  if  he  has  erred 
through  folly  or  vice,  his  error  has  not  been  mortal ;  he  may  in  the 
last  scene  of  the  fifth  act  swiftly  change  his  moral  disposition  as  he 


640      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

would  change  his  outward  garb.  The  traitor  Proteus  is  suddenly 
restored  to  his  better  mind,  and  Valentine  is  generous  enough  to 
resign  to  the  repentant  traitor  all  his  rights  in  Silvia.  Bertram, 
who  almost  to  the  last  entangles  himself  in  a  network  of  dastardly- 
lies,  is  rescued  from  his  dishonesty  and  foolish  pride  by  a  successful 
trick,  and  becomes  the  loyal  husband  of  Helena.  The  Duke 
Orsino  transfers  his  amorous  homage  from  his  "  fancy's  queen  " 
Olivia  to  his  "  fancy's  queen  "  Viola  with  a  most  convenient  facility. 
Angelo  discovers  his  own  baseness  in  the  moment  when  he  perceives 
it  is  discovered  by  the  world,  and  is  straightway  virtuous  enough  to 
bring  the  happiness  required  by  a  fifth  act  to  the  wronged  Mariana. 
Even  lachimo  —  the  lago  of  a  comedy  —  makes  sorrowful  con- 
fession of  his  villany,  and  restores  the  purloined  bracelet  and  the 
ill-won  ring.  Such  transformations  as  these  indicate  that  even  as 
regards  character  the  law  of  comedy  is  a  law  of  liberty.  When 
it  suits  Shakespeare's  purpose,  the  study  of  character  can  be  profound 
and  veracious ;  when  occasion  requires  it,  incident  becomes  all- 
important,  and  character  yields  to  the  requirements  of  the  situation. 
In  truth,  while  it  may  be  said  that  in  Shakespearian  tragedy  char- 
acter is  fate,  in  Shakespearian  comedy,  among  the  contrasts  and  sur- 
prises which  form  so  abundant  a  source  ot  its  vivacity,  not  the  least 
effective  contrast  is  that  of  character  set  over,  as  it  were,  against 
itself,  not  the  least  effective  surprise  is  that  of  character  entering 
upon  new  phases  under  the  play  of  circumstance.  The  unity  and 
logic  of  character  may  not  in  reality  be  impaired,  but  the  unity  is 
realized  in  and  through  diversity.  In  punning,  a  word  is  made  to 
play  a  double  part ;  it  jostles  its  other  self,  and  laughter  ensues. 
What  is  so  single  and  indivisible  as  personality  ?  But  it  John  is 
mistaken  for  Thomas,  accident  seems  to  triumph  over  law,  and  the 
incongruity  arises  of  a  doubled  personal  identity  —  the  apparent  and 
the  real.  Antipholus,  of  Syracuse,  like  the  little  woman  of  the  nurs- 
ery rhyme,  whose  sense  of  personality  was  dependent  on  the  length 
of  her  petticoats,  is  almost  persuaded  that  he  is  other  than  himself. 
If  Viola  disguises  in  doublet  and  hose,  she  secures  by  anticipation 
the  victory  of  Sebastian  over  Olivia's  heart,  while  in  her  own  heart 
she  endures  a  woman's  hidden  love  for  the  Duke.  One  man  in 
his  brief  time  on  Shakespeare's  comic  stage  may  play  many  parts. 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      641 

The  ascetic  scholars  of  Navarre  are  transformed  into  the  most  gal- 
lant of  lovers  and  the  most  ingenious  of  sonneteers.  Catherine  the 
curst  becomes  more  resolute  in  her  wifely  submission  than  she  had 
been  in  her  virgin  sauvagerie.  Signior  Benedick,  who  challenged 
Cupid  at  the  flight,  in  due  time  alters  to  Benedick,  the  married 
man  ;  my  dear  Lady  Disdain,  in  pity  for  him,  and  a  little  in  pity 
for  herself,  has  yielded  upon  great  persuasion.  If,  as  Montaigne 
teaches  us,  man  is  the  most  variable  of  animals,  perhaps  we  learn 
as  important  a  truth  about  human  nature  from  Shakespeare's 
comedies  as  from  his  more  profound  study  of  the  fatality  of  char- 
acter and  passion  in  the  tragedies. 

The  essentials  of  Shakespearian  comedy  at  its  best  are,  after  all, 
simple  and  obvious  enough  —  a  delightful  story,  conducted,  in  some 
romantic  region,  by  gracious  and  gallant  persons,  thwarted  or  aided 
by  the  mirthful  god,  Circumstance,  and  arriving  at  a  fortunate 
issue.  Such  would  not  serve  as  a  description  of  the  comedies  of 
Ben  Jonson.  He  is  pleased  to  keep  us  during  the  greater  part  of 
five  laborious  acts  in  the  company  of  knaves  and  gulls,  and  at  the 
close,  poetic  justice  is  satisfied  with  the  detection  of  folly  and  a 
general  retribution  descending  on  evil-doers.  Shakespeare,  in  com- 
edy, is  no  such  remorseless  justicer.  Don  John,  the  bastard,  is 
reserved  for  punishment,  but  it  shall  be  upon  the  morrow,  and  the 
punishment  shall  be  such  as  the  mirthful  Benedick  may  devise. 
Parolles  escapes  lightly  with  the  laughter  of  Lafeu,  and  mockery, 
qualified  by  a  supper,  will  not  afflict  him  beyond  endurance.  Lucio 
is  condemned  to  marry  the  mother  of  his  child,  which  is  so  dire  an 
evil  that  all  other  forfeits  are  remitted.  Sir  John  FalstafF  will  join 
the  rest  by  Mistress  Page's  country  fire  in  jesting  at  his  own  dis- 
comfiture. Even  Shylock  is  not  wholly  overwhelmed ;  he  shall 
have  godfathers  and  a  godmother  at  his  baptism,  and  remain  in  pos- 
session of  half  his  worldly  goods.  Sebastian  may  live  and  discover 
that  he  is  morally  superior  to  Caliban,  the  thief,  and  Stephano,  the 
drunkard.  lachimo  kneels  and  receives  the  free  forgiveness  of 
Posthumus. 

But  if  Shakespeare,  in  comedy,  is  niggard  of  punishment,  he  is 
liberal  in  rewards.  And  since  almost  all  the  stories  he  chooses  for 
his  comic  stage  are  stories  of  love  and  lovers,  what  grand  reward 


642      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

can  be  reserved  for  the  fifth  act  so  fitting  as  the  reward  of  love  ? 
In  the  seventeenth  century  masque  amid  all  its  mythological,  fan- 
tastic, or  humorous  diversities,  one  point,  or  pivot,  of  the  action 
remained  fixed  —  the  incidents  must  give  occasion  to  a  dance  of  the 
masquers.  So  in  Shakespearian  comedy  we  may,  with  almost  equal 
certainty,  reckon  upon  a  marriage,  or  more  marriages  than  one,  in 
act,  or  in  immediate  prospect,  before  the  curtain  closes.  Or,  if  not 
a  marriage,  for  the  lovers  may  be  wedded  lovers  at  the  opening, 
then,  after  division,  or  separation  of  husband  and  wife,  what  we 
may  call  a  remarriage,  with  misunderstandings  cleared  up  and  faults 
forgiven.  When  Shakespeare  wrote  his  earlier  plays  he  was  him- 
self young,  and  his  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the  future  ;  exultant  lovers 
begin  their  new  life,  and  the  song  of  joy  is  an  epithalamium.  When 
he  wrote  his  latest  plays,  he  was  no  longer  young,  and  he  thought 
of  the  blessedness  of  recovering  the  happy  past,  of  knitting  anew 
the  strained  or  broken  bonds  of  life,  of  connecting  the  former  and 
the  latter  days  in  natural  piety.  Youth  still  must  have  its  rapture; 
Florizel  must  win  his  royal  shepherdess,  queen  of  curds  and  cream  ; 
the  nuptials  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  "  these,  our  dear-beloved," 
must  be  duly  solemnized  at  Naples  ;  but  Shakespeare's  temper  is  no 
longer  the  temper  of  youth  ;  he  is  of  the  company  of  Hermione 
and  Prospero,  and  the  music  of  the  close  is  a  grave  and  spiritual 
harmony. 

Between  the  first  scene  and  the  last  the  path  in  comedy  is  beset 
with  obstacles  and  dangers,  past  which  love  must  find  a  way - 
u  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth."  These  may  be 
either  internal  —  some  difficulty  arising  from  character,  or  external 
- — difference  of  blood  or  of  rank,  the  choice  of  friends,  slanderous 
tongues,  rival  passions,  the  spite  of  fortune.  The  resolution  of  the 
difficultv  must  be  of  a  corresponding  kind  ;  temper,  or  rash  deter- 
mination, must  yield  to  the  predominance  of  love,  or  the  external 
obstacles  must  be  removed  by  well-directed  effort,  or  bv  a  happy 
turn  of  events.  The  young  king  of  Navarre  and  his  fellow-stu- 
dents are  immured  by  their  ascetic  vow  of  culture  ;  Isabella  is  all 
but  ceremonially  pledged  to  the  life  of  religion-,  Olivia  is  secluded 
by  her  luxury  of  sentimental  sorrow  \  Beatrice,  born  to  be  a  lover, 
is  at  odds  with  love  through  her  pride  of  independence  and  wilful 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      643 

mirth  ;  Bertram  has  the  young  colt's  pleasure  in  freedom,  refuses  to 
be  ranged,  and  suffers  from  the  haughty  blindness  of  youth,  which 
cannot  recognize  its  own  chief  need  and  highest  gain.  All  such 
rebels  against  love  will  be  subdued  in  good  time.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  her  father  who  has  decreed  that  Hcrmia  shall  be  parted 
from  Lysander ;  both  father  and  mother  have  rival  designs  for 
marring  the  destiny  of  sweet  Nan  Page ;  a  false  friend  and  fickle 
lover  separates  Valentine  and  Silvia ;  a  malignant  plotter,  who 
would  avenge  on  all  happy  creatures  the  wrong  of  his  own  base 
birth,  strikes  down  Hero  with  the  blow  of  slander  as  she  stands 
before  the  altar.  But  love  has  on  its  side  gallantry  and  resource, 
loyalty  and  valour,  the  good  powers  of  nature  and  the  magic  of  the 
moonlit  faery  wood;  and  so,  over  the  mountains  and  over  the 
waves,  love  at  last  finds  out  a  way. 

Love  being  the  central  theme  of  Shakespearian  comedy,  laughter 
cannot  be  its  principal  end,  and  cruel  or  harsh  laughter  is  almost 
necessarily  excluded.  But  the  laughter  of  joy  rings  out  in  the  earlier 
and  middle  comedies,  and  a  smile,  beautiful  in  its  wisdom  and 
serenity,  illuminates  the  comedies  of  his  closing  period.  If  satire  is 
present,  it  is  only  on  rare  occasions  a  satire  of  manners  ;  it  deals 
rather  with  something  universal,  a  satire  of  the  fatuity  of  self-lovers, 
of  the  power  which  the  human  heart  has  of  self-deception,  or  it  is  a 
genial  mockery  of  the  ineptitude  of  brainless  self-importance,  or 
the  little  languid  lover's  amorous  endeavours,  or  the  lumbering  pace 
of  heavy-witted  ignorance,  which  cannot  catch  a  common  meaning, 
even  by  the  tail ;  at  its  average  rate  of  progress  the  idea  whisks  too 
swiftly  from  the  view  of  such  slow  gazers. 

The  dramatis  persona  form  a  large  and  varied  population,  ranging 
in  social  rank  from  the  king  to  the  tinker  and  the  bellows-mender. 
Princes,  dukes,  courtiers,  pages,  dissolute  gallants,  soldiers,  sailors, 
shepherds,  clowns,  city  mechanicals,  the  country  justice,  the  con- 
stable and  head-borough,  the  schoolmaster,  the  parson,  the  faithful 
old  servant,  the  lively  waiting-maid,  rovsterers,  humourists,  light- 
fingered  rogues,  foreign  fantasticoes,  middle-class  English  husbands 
and  wives,  Welshman,  Frenchman,  Spaniard,  Italian,  Jew,  noble 
and  gracious  ladies,  country  wenches,  courtesans,  childhood,  youth, 
manhood,  old  age,  the  maiden,  the  wife,  the  widow  —  all  sorts  and 


644      Shakespeare  as  a   Comic  Dramatist 

conditions  of  human  mortals  occupy  the  scene,  while  on  this  side 
enters  Caliban,  bearing  his  burden  of  pine-logs,  and  Ariel  flies  over- 
head upon  the  bat's  back,  on  the  other,  the  offended  king  of  faery 
frowns  upon  Titania,  and  claims  his  pretty  Eastern  minion. 

The  characters  are  ordinarily  ranged,  with  an  excellent  effect 
on  dramatic  perspective,  in  three  groups  or  divisions.  The  lovers 
and  their  immediate  friends  or  rivals  occupy  the  middle  plane. 
Above  them  are  persons  of  influence  or  authority  by  virtue  of  age 
or  rank,  on  whom  in  some  measure  the  fortunes  of  the  lovers 
depend.  Below  them  are  the  humbler  aiders  and  abettors  of  their 
designs,  or  subordinate  figures  lightly  attached  to  the  central  action, 
yet  sometimes  playing  into  the  hands  of  benevolent  Chance,  and 
always  ready  to  diversify  the  scene,  to  enliven  the  stage,  to  afford  a 
breathing-space  between  passages  of  high-wrought  emotion,  to  fill 
an  interval  with  glittering  word-play  or  unconscious  humour,  to 
save  romance  from  shrill  intensity  or  too  aerial  ascension  by  the 
contact  of  reality.  Shakespeare  in  comedy  was  hardly  quite  happy 
until  he  had  found  his  Duke  and  his  clown  ;  then  he  had  the  space 
in  which  he  could  move  at  ease  ;  love  remains  his  central  theme, 
but  it  is  love  which  rises  out  of  life  ;  his  principal  figures  are  ren- 
dered more  distinct,  are  seen  more  in  the  round,  because  they  stand 
out  from  a  rich  and  various  background. 

Intrigue;  and  the  Treatment  of  Materials. — The  intrigue  of 
Shakespeare's  comedies  is  seldom  of  his  own  creation.  He  under- 
stood by  "  invention  "  something  finer  or  rarer  than  the  construc- 
tion of  a  plot.  The  greatest  workers  in  literature  —  we  must 
perhaps  except  Dante  —  have  been  the  trouveres,  the  finders.  To 
form  a  being  out  of  the  clay,  and  to  breathe  into  its  nostrils  the 
breath  of  life  is  an  act  of  creation  in  the  finest  sense  of  the  word. 
\Vhat  is  material  and  mechanical  Shakespeare  willingly  accepts  from 
others;  his  range  of  invention  is  almost  without  limit,  but  it  is  in- 
vention in  the  spiritual  world.  No  sufficient  sources  have  been 
found  for  his  earliest  comedy  —  Love's  Labour's  Lost  —  and  for 
what  was  perhaps  his  latest--'//;^  Tempest;  it  docs  not  follow, 
however,  that  in  these  instances  he  varied  from  his  customary 
practice.  When  Shakespeare  dealt  with  the  substantial  matter  of 
history,  he  remained  upon  his  native  soil,  until  through  Plutarch  he 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      045 

discovered  Rome.  No  dramatist  of  his  age  is  more  truly  an  Eng- 
lish patriot ;  no  other  evocation  of  the  past  in  poem  or  play  is  so 
truly  alive  or  so  truly  national  as  that  effected  in  Shakespeare's 
series  of  chronicle  histories  ;  and  with  his  English  history  he  has 
connected  his  robustest  piece  of  comedy  —  no  romance  of  love,  but 
a  comedy  of  character,  essentially  national  in  its  humour,  its  exult- 
ant mirth,  its  pathos,  the  chronicle  history  of  King  FalstafF  on  his 
tavern  throne.  But  breathing  the  air  of  the  English  Renaissance, 
he  turned  away  in  his  romantic  comedies  from  his  own  country  to 
Italy,  the  land  of  romance.  Once  —  in  Cymbellne — he  is  a  debtor 
to  Holinshcd,  but  Holinshed  has  here  to  summon  Boccaccio  to  his 
aid.  Even  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  as  far  as  we  can  trace  its 
sources,  is  indebted  for  some  of  its  laughable  adventures  to  the  Ital- 
ian novelle.  Twice  Shakespeare  borrowed  the  plots  of  comedies 
from  tales  by  contemporary  writers  of  England,  —  As  You  Like  It  is 
founded  upon  Lodge's  Rosalynde ;  The  Winter 's  Tale,  upon  Greene's 
Pandosto.  But  although  Lodge's  story  was  in  part  derived  from  a 
poem  of  rough  and  humble  incidents,  characteristically  English,  it 
was  transformed  in  his  hands  into  a  much-embroidered  amorous 
pastoral  of  the  Renaissance,  and  Greene's  Pandosto  is  equally  a  prod- 
uct of  exotic  southern  culture. 

Boccaccio,  Bandello,  Cinthio,  elder  English  dramas  derived  from 
Italian  sources,  Spanish  pastoral  romance-; — these  furnished  the 
booty  on  which  Shakespeare  laid  hands  with  the  right  of  a  con- 
queror. He  selected,  omitted,  altered,  added,  moulding  the  mass 
of  material  with  plastic  hands,  which  are  gentle  because  they  are 
strong.  Frequently  he  complicates  the  intrigue ;  sometimes  he 
entangles  a  secondary  plot  with  the  primary  ;  sometimes  he  emends 
the  ethics,  or  purifies  the  atmosphere,  or  saves  some  cherished  char- 
acter from  dishonour;  in  many  instances  he  creates  new  personages, 
who  are  the  interpreters  of  his  own  wisdom  or  humour  or  gracious 
temper.  Thus  in  As  You  Like  It,  though  the  loves  of  Orlando  and 
Rosalind  are  transposed  from  the  languid  artificial  pastoral  of  Lodge 
into  the  spirited  wood-notes  of  Shakespeare,  we  look  in  vain  through 
Lodge's  romance  for  the  sentimental-cynical  Jaques,  dilettante  col- 
lector of  curious  experiences,  tor  Touchstone,  the  courtier-clown, 
with  h's  logic  of  nice  distinctions,  for  Audrey,  no  Dresden-china 


646      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

shepherdess,  but  fascinating  to  her  ingenious  suitor  by  virtue  of  her 
robust  charms  and  her  flattering  inferiority  of  brain.  Again,  in 
Twelfth  Night  the  character  of  Malvolio  and  of  the  whole  group  of 
his  tormentors  —  Sir  Toby  Belch,  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  Fabian, 
Feste,  Maria  —  are  added  to  his  originals  by  Shakespeare.  The 
languorous  love-in-idleness  of  the  Duke  Orsino,  and  Olivia's  sad- 
ness prepense  demanded  a  contrast,  and  in  Shakespeare's  imagina- 
tion sprang  up  this  crew  of  toper  and  droll  and  slender-witted 
gentlemen,  and  mischief-loving  maid,  who  seem  to  take  hands  and 
dance  around  the  solemn  figure  of  that  deluded  magnifico  of  domes- 
tics. To  cite  but  one  other  example,  how  would  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing  dwindle  if  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  its  brain  of  wit  and  pulse 
of  gallantry,  were  to  disappear  from  the  scene  !  But  these,  and 
with  them  the  office-bearing  majesty  of  Dogberry,  prince  of  consta- 
bles, and  the  astute  intelligence  of  goodman  Verges  ("  an  old  man, 
sir  ;  but  honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows  ")  are  engrafted  by 
Shakespeare  on  the  original  of  Bandello. 

Relation  to  Predecessors  and  Contemporaries.  —  From  his  prede- 
cessors and  early  contemporaries  Shakespeare  doubtless  learnt  what- 
ever it  was  in  their  power  to  teach  ;  at  the  same  time  he  started 
forth  on  ways  of  his  own.  In  Lyly  he  saw  how  something  of  the 
ideality  of  the  masque  could  be  transferred  to  comedy ;  how 
comedy  could  escape  from  the  grosser  world  of  the  actual  to  a 
realm  of  courtly  classical  fantasy  ;  how  action  could  be  suspended 
to  give  scope  for  the  play  of  sparkling  or  ingenious  dialogue  in 
prose;  how  dainty  song  could  come  to  the  aid  of  speech  which 
threatened  to  grow  tedious ;  how  disguises  of  sex  could  lead  to 
delicate  and  diverting  confusions.  But  Shakespeare  must  have 
perceived  the  lack  of  human  interest  in  Lyly's  plays  ;  the  deficiency 
of  action,  which  often  causes  the  progress  of  the  piece  to  languish 
or  to  cease  ;  the  slight  or  colourless  characterization  ;  the  mechan- 
ical artificiality,  and  monotonous  balance  of  certain  elements  in 
Euphuistic  prose.  What  was  sprightly  and  ingenious  in  Lyly's 
dialogue  he  preserved  ;  but  of  Euphuism  in  the  strict  sense  we  find 
nothing  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  except  a  passage  of  mockery,  appro- 
priately introduced  where  Falstaff  in  the  tavern  discourses  as  a 
moralizing  father  to  that  well-bred  youth,  Prince  Hal,  —  "For 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      647 

though  the  camomile  the  more  it  is  trodden  on  the  faster  it  grows, 
yet  youth  the  more  it  is  wasted  the  sooner  it  wears."  Nor,  unless 
it  be  the  passage  describing  Oberon's  vision  of  Cupid  aiming  his 
shaft  at  the  fair  vestal  throned  in  the  West,  does  he  follow  Lyly 
in  mythological  allegory,  which  conceals  and  betrays  contemporary 
persons  and  events. 

In  the  comedies  of  Robert  Greene  examples  already  existed  of 
the  romantic  tale  of  love  and  lovers  handled  in  dramatic  fashion. 
Amid  the  vulgar  surroundings  of  his  sorry  London  life,  Greene 
preserved  a  certain  purity  of  idyllic  imagination.  His  comely 
maidens  and  loyal  wives,  tried  and  true,  had  shown  how  important 
and  how  attractive  a  part  may  be  borne  by  women  upon  the  comic 
stage.  He  had  exhibited  with  some  skill  the  art  of  connecting  two 
intrigues  —  the  primary  and  the  subordinate.  He  had  placed  comic 
matter  side  by  side  with  matter  which  approximated  to  tragic.  He 
could  pass  from  verse  to  prose,  and  could  mingle  with  blank  verse, 
sometimes  brocaded  with  ornament  but  often  fresh  and  sweet,  easy 
rhymed  couplets  and  such  other  arrangements  of  rhyme  as  Shake- 
speare practised  in  his  early  plays.  But  he  often  erred  through  an 
attempt  at  Marlowesque  magnificence  and  through  the  pride  and 
pomp  of  pseudo-classical  decoration.  He  lacked  that  humour  of 
good  sense,  directed  upon  oneself,  which  warns  a  writer  when  he 
is  in  danger  of  falling  into  absurdity.  His  ludicrous  scenes  do  not 
always  assist  the  more  serious  or  romantic  matter  of  the  play  ;  they 
are  too  much  of  the  nature  of  an  interlude  or  divertissement.  His 
feeling  for  what  is  laughable  was  somewhat  primitive  and  crude  ; 
a  vigorous  bout  at  quarter-staves,  a  lusty  drubbing,  the  extravagant 
pfanks  of  a  medieval  devil,  were  simple  and  unfailing  receipts  to 
shake  the  ribs  of  the  groundlings.  If  Shakespeare  was  a  pupil  of 
Greene's  in  comedy,  he  was  an  intelligent  pupil,  who  knew  what 
to  remember  and  what  to  forget. 

Except  as  regards  the  form  of  his  verse  and  prose  it  cannot  be 
said  that  Shakespeare,  as  a  writer  of  comedy,  was  ever  in  a  true 
sense  in  discipleship  to  any  master.  He  found  suggestions,  and 
used  them,  but  he  took  his  own  way.  The  history  of  his  develop- 
ment consists  in  great  measure  in  the  gradual  coalescing  of  the 
various  faculties  from  which  poetry  may  be  derived.  In  his  latest 


648      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

comedies  intellect  and  emotion  are  fused  together ;  wit  has  been 
taken  up  into  moral  wisdom  ;  imagination  in  its  highest  reach  is 
united  with  the  simple,  primary  feelings  of  our  humanity  ;  gaiety 
and  seriousness  interpenetrate  each  other;  tenderness  and  pity  are 
alive  in  the  breast  of  the  comic  Muse;  the  laughter  is  often  the 
laughter  of  human  sympathy  and  of  a  pathetic  joy  ;  if  we  smile  at 
the  quaint  forms  of  the  hieroglyph  of  life,  we  know  that  it  has  a 
deep  and  sacred  meaning.  From  the  outset  Shakespeare  thought 
of  comedy  as  a  mirror  of  human  life,  which  should  reflect  things 
sad  and  serious  as  well  as  mirthful,  and  which  by  its  magic  power 
should  convert  pain  into  pleasure  ;  but  the  two  elements  of  Shake- 
spearian comedy  exist  side  by  side  in  the  earliest  plays  ;  they  are 
not  yet  fused  into  one.  In  the  main,  Shakespeare  at  first  relied 
upon  his  nimble  brain,  and  aimed  at  exciting  laughter  by  comic 
surprises,  contrasts,  and  incongruities  which  lie  upon  the  surface 
of  things  and  are  the  offspring  of  accident  rather  than  of  character. 
His  delight  in  wit-combats  and  word-play  is  a  transference  to  lan- 
guage of  the  same  feeling  which  made  him  delight  in  the  errors  and 
disguisings  of  his  persons.  There  is  a  laughter  which  arises  from 
no  profounder  cause  than  titillation  ;  the  harlequinade  of  words, 
leaping  one  over  the  other,  parrying,  riposting,  and  suddenly  disap- 
pearing under  a  mask  of  invisibility,  yet  still  striking,  as  it  were, 
out  of  the  shadow,  serves  as  a  titillation  of  the  brain. 

Shakespeare's  Development  as  a  Comic  Dramatist.  —  In  his  earliest 
group  of  comedies,  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  dating  per- 
haps from  about  1590  to  about  1594,  Shakespeare  experimented  in 
various  directions.  We  might  name  the  group  that  of  his  transfor- 
mation plavs.  The  comic  surprise,  the  comic  incongruity  is  that  of 
man  suddenly  converted  from  his  true  to  a  false  self  or  from  a  false 
self  to  a  true.  Human  will  is  here  the  sport  of  nature  or  the  sport 
of  accident.  Nothing  is  but  what  is  not.  The  vowed  students  of 
Navarre  are  betrayed  into  the  very  opposite  of  their  assumed  selves 
by  the  power  of  nature  and  of  love.  Proteus,  the  servant  of  Julia, 
the  comrade  of  Valentine,  forsakes  his  mistress  and  his  friend,  and 
is  as  suddenly  reconverted.  The  brothers  Antipholus  and  the 
brothers  Dromio  are  so  shuffled  together  by  the  juggler  Chance, 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      649 

that  we  question  if  any  personal  identity  will  survive  and  reemerge 
at  the  close.  Whether  Lysander  and  Demetrius  will  awake  the 
rival  lovers  of  Helena  or  the  rival  lovers  of  Hermia,  or  whether 
Lysander  will  love  Hermia  and  Demetrius  Helena,  depends  on  the 
merest  luck  of  fairy-land.  But  nature  and  luck  are  on  the  side  of 
love ;  all  will  be  set  right  before  the  end.  And  because  women  lie 
closer  to  nature  than  men,  and  their  affections  hold  the  bent  with 
the  directness  and  certainty  of  nature,  they  are  true  and  constant 
to  themselves,  neither  deluding  their  hearts  with  pseudo-ideals,  nor 
changed  by  the  play  of  circumstances  from  what  they  are,  but  using 
their  woman's  wit  and  woman's  will  to  attain  their  proper  ends. 

Loves  Labour  s  Lost  has  the  air  of  a  young  writer's  effort  to  be 
original,  and  to  dazzle  by  unflagging  cleverness  ;  whence  at  times 
a  tedium  of  wit.  Shakespeare  seems  to  have  resolved  to  owe  his 
plot  to  no  man,  with  the  result  that  it  is  somewhat  too  much  a 
prepared  vehicle  for  the  exposition  of  an  idea.  The  little  cloister 
of  culture,  where  education  is  to  be  a  fine  art  removed  from  nature, 
is  invaded  by  woman,  and  with  the  entrance  of  woman  enters 
nature,  which  has  more  of  wisdom  to  impart  than  all  the  academies 
or  schools.  The  denouement  must  be  as  original  as  the  general 
design  ;  death  arrives  in  the  midst  of  mirth  ;  there  shall  be  no  wed- 
dings in  the  fifth  act ;  love's  labour  is  lost ;  or,  if  not  lost,  its  reward 
is  deferred  a  twelvemonth;  the  scholars  turned  lovers  are  still  in- 
fected with  something  of  unreality  and  affectation,  exhaling  their 
sentiment  in  Petrarchan  ingenuities,  and  one  of  them,  Biron,  with 
his  mocking  humour,  takes  life  too  proudly  and  wilfully  ;  the  mad 
girls  of  France  are  at  heart  serious,  and  they  will  test  their  lovers 
by  a  year  of  genuine  probation,  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  marriage 
bells  shall  ring.  The  Spanish  fantastico,  Don  Adriano,  towering 
in  stature,  though  not  in  wit,  above  his  minion  page,  and  the 
learned  schoolmaster  Holofernes,  much  admired  of  his  companion 
pedant,  the  curate,  resemble  stock  figures  of  Italian  comedy. 
Affectations  of  language  —  the  decorated  dialect  of  fashion,  the 
pedantries  of  scholarship  not  too  profound  —  are  also  departures 
trom  nature,  and  must  submit  to  the  laughter  of  good  sense. 
Nature  may,  indeed,  be  mended  by  art,  for  nature  in  its  first  rudi- 
ments, as  seen  in  honest  Costard  and  good  man  Dull,  is  not  wholly 


650      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

a  thing  of  beauty  and  of  joy,  but  the  art  which  mends  nature  must 
be,  as  the  wise  Polixencs  afterwards  declared,  an  art  that  nature 
makes.  Love's  Labour's  Lost  —  the  Pr'ecieuses  ridicules  of  Shake- 
speare, but  with  men  for  the  presenters  of  preciosity  and  women  as 
the  exponents  of  good  sense  —  is  a  comedy  of  dialogue  rather  than 
of  incident.  The  stage  is  kept  alive  with  much  tossing  about  of 
brains  in  wit-encounters,  with  maskings  and  disguisings,  and  with 
that  marred  show  of  the  Nine  Worthies,  a  heroi-comic  forerunner 
of  the  tedious,  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus  and  his  love  Thisbe, 
in  which  the  hard-handed  men  of  Athens  appear  before  Duke 
Theseus. 

The  Comedy  of  Errors  is  a  comedy  of  incident.  Here  Shake- 
speare accepts  his  plot,  his  chief  characters,  and  their  adventures 
from  Plautus.  But  the  adventures  are  complicated  by  his  addition 
of  the  two  Dromios,  which  more  than  doubles  the  possibilities  of 
ludicrous  confusion.  The  fun  cannot  be  too  fast  or  furious  ;  the 
unexpected  always  happens  ;  the  discovery  is  staved  off  to  the  fifth 
act  with  infinite  skill ;  the  nearer  each  brother  approaches  his  fellow, 
the  more  impossible  it  becomes  for  them  to  meet.  Nowhere  has 
Shakespeare  ravelled  and  unravelled  the  threads  of  an  intrigue  with 
such  incomparable  dexterity  as  in  this  early  play.  But  Shake- 
peare's  imagination  could  not  rest  satisfied  with  a  farce,  however 
laughable  or  however  skilfully  conducted.  His  vein  of.  lyrical  poetry 
breaks  forth  in  the  love-episode,  for  the  sake  of  which  he  created 
Luciana.  And  he  has  set  the  entire  comic  business  in  a  romantic 
and  pathetic  framework — the  story  of  the  afflicted  old  /Egeon  and 
the  Ephesian  abbess,  in  whom  he  discovers  his  lost  wife.  The 
play  opens  with  grief  and  the  doom  of  death  impending  over  an 
innocent  life  ;  it  closes,  after  a  cry  of  true  pathos,  with  reconciling 
joy,  and  the  interval  is  filled  with  laughter  that  peals  to  a  climax. 
This  is  not  the  manner  of  Plautus  ;  but  laughter  with  Shakespeare 
would  seem  hard  and  barren  —  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a 
pot,  —  if  it  were  wholly  isolated  from  grief  and  love  and  joy. 

Shakespeare  did  not  a^ain  attempt  the  comedy  of  mere  incident. 
In  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  J'erona  he  struck  into  his  favourite  tune 
—  the  comedy  of  romance.  Among  its  sources  is  the  Spanish 
pastoral  of  Jorge  de  Montemayor,  but  the  scene  is  Italy,  the 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      651 

woman-country  wooed  in  this  play  before  it  was  wed  by  the  imagi- 
nation of  its  poet  in  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  The  theme  is  love, 
its  fidelity  and  its  infidelity  —  love  with  its  incalculable  surprises, 
love  with  its  unalterable  constancy.  The  characters  arc  lightly  yet 
gracefully  outlined  ;  there  are  the  grave  and  reverend  seniors  ;  the 
contrasted  pairs  of  lovers  ;  the  waiting-woman  ;  and  the  clownish 
men-servants,  to  whom  the  business  of  laughter  is  intrusted.  The 
persons  are  somewhat  mechanically  set  over,  one  against  the  other, 

—  Valentine  the  loyal  against  the  fickle  Proteus,  Silvia  the  sprightly 
against  the  tender  Julia,  Speed  the  professional  wit  against   Launce 
the    unconscious    humourist,    whose    filial    affections    and    amorous 
desires   for   the    milkmaid,  who    has   more  qualities  than   a  water- 
spaniel,  are  only  secondary  to  his  devotion  to  the  cur   Crab,  a  dog, 
indeed,  to  whose  share  some  canine  errors   fall,  but   endowed  with 
more  qualities  than  a  wilderness  of  milkmaids.      The  disguising  of 
Julia  in  masculine  attire  anticipates  many  such  disguisings   in   later 
comedies.      It  is  no  frolic  masking  like  that  of  the  girls  of  France, 
but   part  of  the  serious-playful   romance  of  a  woman's   brave  and 
gentle  heart.      The  blank  verse  is  sweet  and  regular  rather  than 
swift  or  powerful  in  dramatic  movement ;   rhyme  is  less   frequently 
used    than    heretofore ;    the    prose   of    Launce's    soliloquies    has   a 
homely  directness  and  vigour. 

In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  comedy  becomes  lyrical.  Char- 
acter is  subordinate  to  incident,  but  incident  here  has  a  dreamlike 
quality,  which  unites  itself  with  the  poetry  of  a  fantastic  world.  It 
is  a  comedy  of  errors,  —  the  errors  of  a  night,  —  but  the  confusions 
are  not  external  and  material  as  in  the  adventures  of  the  brothers 
Antipholus  ;  they  are  inward  and  psychological ;  the  bewilderment 
is  one  of  passions,  not  of  persons.  The  triumph  of  the  poet  lies 
before  all  else  in  the  power  which  he  shows  of  harmonizing  mate- 
rials seemingly  the  most  incongruous.  The  magnificence  of  The- 
seus and  his  Amazonian  bride,  —  power  in  the  full  tide  of  prosperity, 

—  the  crossed  and  wayward  loves  of  youths  and  maidens,  the  mini- 
kin-mighty strifes  of  fairy-land  and  its  roguish  sports,  the  artistic 
pains  and  illustrious  ineptitude  of  the  crew  of  hempen  homespuns 

—  all  these  are  wrought  together  in  a  dream  which  we  accept  with 
a  tranquil  and  delighted  wonder. 


652      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

The  power  of  the  human  will  is,  as  it  were,  suspended  in  this 
play  of  elfland  magic.  Before  The  Merchant  of  Venice  was  written, 
Shakespeare's  feeling  for  dramatic  action  and  passion  had  been 
deepened  and  invigorated  by  his  progress  in  dealing  with  English 
history  and  probably  by  the  creation  of  a  great  tragedy,  Romeo  and 
"Juliet,  the  tragedy  of  love  and  youth  and  death.  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  is  Shakespeare's  first,  and  perhaps  his  most  remarkable,  ex- 
ample of  the  comedy  of  character.  Here  we  pass  from  the  realm 
of  caprice  to  that  of  human  volition.  A  passive  object,  the  mer- 
chant, is  placed  in  the  midst  as  a  prize  to  be  contended  for  by 
forces  naturally  adverse  —  the  passion  of  concentrated  revenge  and 
the  spirit  of  charity,  armed  with  the  brightest  weapons  of  intelli- 
gence. The  masculine  and  the  feminine  powers  enter  upon  a 
single  combat,  and  victory  remains  with  mercy  and  love,  the  "  Ewig- 
weibliche."  No  such  figure  as  that  of  Shylock  had  previously 
appeared  upon  the  English  stage.  In  his  person  Shakespeare  not 
only  lays  bare  the  nerve  and  muscle  of  a  wrestler  in  the  game  of 
life,  but  studies  the  darker  and  sadder  features  of  a  race.  He  is 
no  incredible  monster  like  the  Barabas  of  Marlowe,  but  a  man, 
whose  origins  and  environment  have  made  him  what  he  is  ;  whom, 
therefore,  we  understand  and  whom  in  his  very  pitilessness  we  are 
constrained  to  pity.  Nor  had  the  English  stage  hitherto  seen  any 
woman  so  complex  in  her  various  powers  of  intellect,  emotions, 
will,  so  single  in  their  harmonious  cooperance,  as  the  noble  lady  of 
Belmont.  The  same  energy  of  resolve  which  makes  her  the  armed 
champion  of  Antonio  had  lain  hidden  in  her  loyalty  to  the  arduous 
conditions  of  her  father's  will.  The  dramatist  in  this  play  postu- 
lates our  acceptance  of  certain  external  improbabilities ;  these  con- 
cessions made,  all  things  are  wrought  out  in  accordance  with  the 
laws  of  life.  The  spirit  of  tragedy  here  is  neighbour  to  the  comic 
spirit,  yet  observes  the  finest  decorum.  Two  actions  —  that  of  the 
caskets  and  that  of  the  pound  of  flesh  —  work  into  each  other 
without  a  jar  and  become  one.  The  characters  are  grouped  with 
perfect  freedom  and  with  an  exact,  though  unobtruded,  ordon- 
nance,  for  Shakespeare's  art  had  now  learnt  to  conceal  itself.  The 
fifth  act  of  the  play  is  a  kind  of  lovely  epilogue,  where,  after  the 
strained  anxiety  of  the  trial-scene,  joy  is  preserved  from  its  own 
excess  by  the  instinct  of  self-mockery. 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      653 

It  may  be  that  the  humbler  humorous  scenes  of  the  English 
historical  plays  on  which  he  was  now  engaged  drew  down  the 
imagination  of  Shakespeare  as  a  writer  of  comedy  from  romance  to 
realism,  and  made  him  content  to  work  for  a  little  while  in  rougher 
material.  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  whatever  its  chronological 
place  may  be,  is  only  a  spirited  adaptation  of  an  older  play,  and  is 
chiefly  interesting  as  an  example  of  Shakespeare's  art  in  transposing, 
developing,  enriching  with  detail,  the  ideas  of  a  predecessor,  and  as 
a  demonstration  of  the  temper  with  which  he  could  kindle  a  prede- 
cessor's allegro  into  an  allegro  con  brio.  With  old  Sly's  son  of  Burton 
heath,  the  village  sot,  he  was  upon  his  native  soil,  and  he  could 
heighten  his  original  with  low-life  reminiscences  of  Warwickshire 
taverns.  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  is  a  direct  offshoot  from  the 
greater  comedy  of  Falstaff  which  is  incorporated  in  the  historical 
plays.  The  tradition  that  it  was  hastily  written  by  command  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  who  desired  to  see  "  Falstaff  in  love,"  relieves  us 
from  the  necessity  of  supposing  that  Shakespeare  voluntarily  de- 
graded his  indomitable  jester  into  the  flouting-stock  of  a  bourgeois 
fabliau,  "Well  I  am  your  theme:  you  have  the  start  of  me;  I  am 
dejected  ;  .  .  .  ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er  me  ;  use  me  as 
you  will."  That  Shakespeare  should  throw  himself  with  spirit  into 
his  task  was  a  crime  for  which  he  earns  our  forgiveness  by  its  suc- 
cessful issue.  The  merry  wives  are  honest  buxom  dames,  without  a 
grain  of  real  malice  in  them.  The  French  physician  and  the  Welsh 
parson  murder  the  Queen's  English  with  as  happy  a  valiance  as  that 
of  Fluellen  and  the  Princess  Katharine  in  King  Henry  ['.  Slender 
is  the  most  delightfully  incompetent  of  wooers  —  a  Romeo  manque 
of  Windsor,  whose  amorous  passion  waits  upon  his  cousin  Shallow's 
promptings  and  whose  wit  is  mislaid  with  his  Hook  of  Riddles. 
The  buck-basket  and  the  old  woman  of  Brentford  are  very  palpable 
jokes,  which  the  crassest  gentleman-usher  or  emptiest-headed  maid- 
in-waiting  could  not  miss.  There  are  the  proper  topical  allusions 
to  call  forth  an  interchange  of  smiling  mutual  intelligence.  Alto- 
gether The  Merry  Wives  was  a  comedy  delicate  enough  for  a 
queen.  For  such  a  play  the  proper  medium  was  prose  ;  verse  is 
reserved  for  the  slender  love-episode  of  Fenton  and  Anne  Page, 
and  for  the  scenes  connected  with  the  fairy  disguising. 


654      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

As  the  pressure  of  the  English  historical  plays  lightened,  Shake- 
speare could  turn  again  to  Italy  and  to  romance.  In  The  Merry 
Wives  he  had  grouped  his  characters  in  a  circle  around  a  gross  old 
self-lover,  whom  it  was  their  business  to  delude  and  mock.  Per- 
haps the  same  device  could  be  refined  upon  and  turned  to  romantic 
uses.  FalstafF  had  professed  love  and  had  been  convicted  of  sordid 
self-interest.  What  if  a  pair  of  high-spirited  persons,  touched  with 
the  egotism  of  self-sufficingness  and  wilful  wit,  and  professing  a 
superiority  to  the  toys  of  lovers,  could  be  ensnared  into  that  deep 
mutual  passion  which  was  in  truth  written  for  them  in  the  book  of 
fate  ?  But  there  must  be  something  deeper  here  than  a  jest ;  such 
brave  union  of  hearts  must  be  cemented  by  a  common  effort  to 
confront  the  sorrow  of  the  world.  At  this  time,  perhaps,  Shake- 
speare was  concerned  with  his  revision  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 
Might  not  Biron  and  Rosaline  be  reincarnated,  and  in  place  of  that 
crude  test  of  a  twelve  months'  visitation  of  the  speechless  sick 
decreed  for  Biron,  might  not  an  immediate  test  of  valiant  manhood 
be  discovered,  and  the  newer  Biron  come  to  the  happy  ending  of 
love's  labour's  won  ?  In  Beatrice  and  Benedick  a  brilliant  centre 
was  found  for  the  play  of  Much  Ado  about  Nothing.  The  high  spirits, 
which  gave  life  to  The  Shrew  and  The  Merry  Wives  are  here  refined 
by  gallantry  and  beauty,  wit  and  grace,  and  by  the  presence  of 
injury  and  pain.  The  other  dramatis  persona;  gather  around  the 
hero  and  heroine  to  beguile  them  into  love  ;  the  passion  begotten 
of  a  jest  is  brought  forth  in  sorrow,  and  sorrow  at  the  close  is  con- 
verted into  joy.  With  so  much  of  quick  and  lambent  dialogue  as 
Beatrice  and  Benedick  have  to  utter,  we  want  no  outstanding  jester 
here;  his  speech  would  be  an  impertinence;  but  we  need  a  counter- 
foil to  wit  in  the  unconscious  humour  of  a  Dogberry  and  a  Verges; 
and  these  worthies  assist  effectivelv  in  the  action  of  the  play  ;  Fate, 
the  sphinx,  assumes  an  ironic  smile;  the  dulness  of  a  blundering 
watchman  unties  a  knot  which  has  foiled  the  dexterity  of  the  wise. 

The  comedy  which  followed  Much  Ado  about  Nothing  is  one  of 
sunshine  and  dappled  shadow  under  the  greenwood  of  Arden.  Land- 
seer's  companion  pictures,  "  War  "  and  "  Peace,"  find  a  parallel  in 
Shakespeare's  King  Henry  I',  and  As  Ton  Like  //,  which  probably 
belong  to  the  same  year  ;  and  the  scene  ot  both  the  history  and  the 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      655 

comedy  is  laid  in  France.  He  would  have  left  untouched  a  favour- 
ite theme  of  the  Renaissance  if  he  had  wholly  neglected  the  pastoral ; 
but  Shakespeare  felt  that  the  conventional  pastoral  alone,  with  its 
cruel  shepherdess  and  sighing  swain,  however  suitable  for  a  piece 
of  poetical  tapestry,  could  not  furnish  the  life  and  body  and  move- 
ment demanded  by  the  stage.  His  Silvius  and  Phcrbe,  Arcadians 
of  the  mode  and  rhetoricians  in  verse,  are  presented  with  a  certain 
reserved  irony  ;  the  veritable  rustics  arc  William,  whose  pretty  wit 
chiefly  manifests  itself  in  monosyllabic  answers,  and  the  wench 
Audrey,  whom  the  gods  did  not  make  poetical.  Touchstone,  a 
clown  among  courtiers,  is  a  courtier  among  clowns.  The  other 
persons  of  the  comedy  are  of  the  high-bred  class,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  dramatist's  imagination  moved  with  most  pleasure,  but 
here  they  are  transported  into  a  delightful  open-air  environment, 
which  breathes  a  freshness  and  sweetness  into  their  spirits.  "  Sweet 
are  the  uses  of  adversity,"  and  especially  of  such  adversity  as  that 
of  Rosalind,  which  enables  her,  in  her  disguise  as  Ganymede,  to 
assist  in  her  own  wooing  and  to  play  the  part  of  a  benevolent  god- 
dess of  destiny  for  several  pairs  of  lovers  including  Orlando  and 
herself.  We  learn  from  a  play  of  Ben  Jonson's  of  the  same  date 
that  melancholy  was  a  genteel  fashion  of  the  day.  Shakespeare,  on 
the  suggestion  of  a  current  affectation,  created  in  Jaques  a  character 
which  was  wholly  original.  Humourist,  sentimentalist,  critic,  and 
cynic,  he  is  the  self-conscious  seeker  for  new  experiences,  the 
dilettante  collector  of  curiosities  to  be  labelled  in  his  museum  as 
states  of  a  human  soul. 

The  midsummer  of  Shakespeare's  comedy  is  reached  in  Twelfth 
Night.  Was  it  his  effort  to  resist  the  invasion  of  sadder  thought 
which  raised  its  mirth  to  the  reeling  heights  of  Sir  Toby's  Illyrian 
bacchanals  ?  We  dare  not  venture  such  a  surmise,  for  the  light 
and  warmth  arc  at  flood-tide.  The  voluptuous  love-languors  of 
the  Duke  and  Olivia's  luxury  of  grief  fatten  the  idle  soil  for  the 
blossoming  of  the  rose.  The  disease  of  overmuch  prosperity  in 
the  palaces  of  Illyria  seems  set  over  against  the  sanity  of  adversity 
in  the  forest  of  Arden.  Viola,  in  her  disguises  as  CVsario,  has  a 
harder  task  than  the  banished  Rosalind  ;  for  instead  of  assisting  at 
her  own  wooing,  she  is  required  to  plead  as  an  envoy  of  love 


656      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

against  herself.  In  place  of  the  dilettante  egotist  Jaques,  who 
would  range  through  all  experiences,  we  have  here  the  solemn  self- 
lover,  Malvolio,  pinnacled  in  his  own  sense  of  importance  and  his 
code  of  formal  propriety,  yet  toppling  from  his  heights  to  so  gro- 
tesque a  fall.  Had  Shakespeare  encountered  some  starched  Eliza- 
bethan Puritan,  who  looked  sourly  on  the  theatre,  and  thought  that 
because  he  was  virtuous  there  should  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale, 
and  did  the  dramatist  read  a  humorous  lesson  to  his  time  on  an 
error  more  deep-seated  in  the  human  heart  than  the  excesses  of  a 
joyous  temper  ?  Was  the  comic  spirit  here  a  swordsman  armed 
with  the  blade  of  reason  and  good  sense  ?  If  such  was  the  case, 
Shakespeare  was  assuredly  no  partisan,  and  Sir  Toby  Belch  is  hardly 
his  ideal  representative  of  a  liberal  humanism. 

After  the  play  of    Twelfth   Night  we   become   aware   of  the   first 
ebb  of  summer.      It  has  been  suggested  that  the  events   shadowed 

OO 

forth  in  the  Sonnets  took  some  of  the  joy  out  of  Shakespeare's  heart. 
It  has  been  suggested  that  the  fall  of  Essex,  involving  the  disgrace 
of  the  poet's  patron  Southampton,  tended  to  embitter  his  spirit. 
These  are  conjectures  that  cannot  be  verified.  What  is  certain  is, 
that  he  turned  toward  tragedy,  and  that  his  temper  in  comedy  indi- 
cates a  gathering  of  the  clouds.  The  spirit  of  All's  IVell  that  Ends 
If^ell  is  as  courageous  as  is  the  title  of  the  play  ;  and  there  is  a 
need  for  courage,  not  of  the  gay  and  sportive  kind,  but  serious  and 
steadfast.  The  hero  is  no  gallant  Orlando  or  high-spirited  Bene- 
dick. He  has  in  him,  we  must  suppose,  the  possibilities  of  noble 
manhood,  but  these  are  obscured  by  the  errors  and  the  vices  of 
youth.  The  heroine  is  no  glad-hearted  girl  like  Rosalind,  no 
scatterer  of  coruscating  jests  like  Beatrice,  but  a  woman,  clear- 
sighted, strong-willed,  and  bent  on  achieving  her  purpose.  She, 
the  poor  daughter  of  a  physician,  is  a  healer  in  a  world  that  stands 
in  need  of  healing.  The  bright-winged  Cupid  of  nods  and  becks 
and  wreathed  smiles  has  been  transformed  into  Love,  the  physician. 
Helena,  honoured  and  cherished  by  all  who  know  her  aright,  is 
rejected  by  the  one  man  on  whom  her  heart  is  fixed,  and  whom  she 
rescues  from  his  baser  self  with  something  of  that  maternal  pro- 
tectiveness,  which  in  certain  instances  constitutes  the  nucleus  of 
wifely  love.  The  Countess  is  Shakespeare's  creation,  and  nowhere 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      657 

has  he  made  age  more  beautiful.  The  comic  business  lies  chiefly 
in  the  unmasking  of  the  pretender,  Parolles.  It  is  required  both 
by  the  action  and  the  ethics  of  the  play,  but  there  is  little  to  afford 
us  pleasure  in  the  humiliation  of  so  paltry  a  miles  glonosus. 

The  atmosphere  darkens  in  Measure  for  Measure.  In  the  city 
of  Vienna  corruption  boils  and  bubbles.  From  the  Duke's  deputy 
to  the  lowest  drudge  of  vice,  society  is  infected  with  the  festering 
evil.  To  deal  with  the  subtleties  of  sin,  virtue  itself  must  learn 
crafty  ways;  mines  must  be  opposed  by  countermines.  In  Claudio 
the  passions  of  youth,  snatching  too  eagerly  at  unlicensed  satisfac- 
tion, are  brought  into  the  presence  of  death;  and  to  life,  tender  and 
florid,  the  vast  regions  of  the  grave  are  full  of  obscurity  and  uncer- 
tain horror.  It  is  hardly  a  scene  for  the  joy  of  love,  though  to 
two  strong  hearts  love  may  come  in  the  end  as  the  sequel  of  a 
common  struggle  for  justice  and  moral  reformation.  Rather  is  it 
a  place  for  the  trials  and  the  victory  of  virgin  chastity.  The  Duke 
moves  through  subterranean  passages,  guided  by  the  dark  lantern 
of  moral  prudence.  Isabella  illuminates  the  gloom  with  the  light 
of  an  indignant  saintliness.  Here  it  is  no  pompous  formalist  who 
is  humiliated  ;  no  common  pretender  who  is  detected  and  delivered 
over  to  laughter;  the  deadliest  ambushes  of  evil  arc  attacked;  the 
heart,  "  deceitful  above  all  things  and  desperately  wicked,"  is  laid 
bare.  Angelo,  the  self-deceiver,  is  exposed  not  merely  to  others, 
but  to  himself;  he  gazes  down  appalled  into  the  abyss  discovered 
in  his  own  soul.  We  have  travelled  far  from  the  fresh  wild-wood 
paths  of  Arden  and  from  the  glowing  gardens  ot  Illyria. 

No  problems  connected  with  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  are  more 
difficult  of  solution  than  those  offered  by  the  satiric  drama,  in  which 
matter  from  the  story  of  Troy  is  handled  in  so  enigmatic  a  fashion. 
Shall  we  place  Trollus  and  Cressida  hard  by  Measure  for  Measure,  or 
date  it  some  six  years  later,  regarding  it  as  a  successor  in  comedy 
to  the  tragic  study  of  the  misanthrope  in  Timon  of  Athens?  The 
evidence  inclines  in  favour  of  the  earlier  date.  Is  some  of  the 
wood,  hay,  and  stubble  of  the  lost  Troilus  and  Cressida  of  Dekker 
and  Chettle  imbedded  in  Shakespeare's  play  ?  Is  it  a  satire  of 
humanity  or  of  contemporary  individuals?  Was  this  the  "purge" 
which  Shakespeare  administered  to  Ben  Jonson,  and,  with  Jonson 


658      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

disguised  as  Ajax,  and  Marston  as  Thersites,  was  the  play  one  of 
those  alarums  and  excursions  connected  with  the  war  of  the 
theatres,  in  which  Marston,  Dekker,  and  Jonson  were  the  princi- 
pal combatants  ? :  Is  Cressida  a  malicious  portrait  of  the  deceitful 
enchantress  of  the  Sonnets,  and  was  a  satirical  presentment  of  the 
heroes  of  Homer  a  retort  upon  the  rival  poet,  conjectured  to  be 
Chapman,  the  translator  of  Homer,  who  had  stolen  away  the 
favour  of  Shakespeare's  young  friend  and  patron.  These  questions 
remain  unanswered.  We  can  only  say  that  the  spirit  of  this 
comedy  of  disillusion  is  alien  to  that  of  genuine  comedy  as  con- 
ceived by  Shakespeare  in  his  happier  days.  The  young  love  of 
Troilus  is  betrayed  by  the  courtesan  born.  Achilles  is  a  dull- 
brained  fellow,  barren  of  wit,  who  sulks  or  wantons  in  his  tent ; 
Ajax  is  a  clumsy  elephant ;  Thersites  lives  on  garbage,  and  spews 
his  filth  ;  Pandar  is  a  lecher,  incapable  except  by  proxy  ;  to  fight  on 
account  of  Helen  is  to  set  the  world  at  odds  for  an  harlot,  yet  on 
her  behalf  it  is  that  Hector,  knowing  the  folly  of  it,  dies.  Troilus 
is  indeed  a  gallant  youth,  but  his  passion  is  a  greenhorn's  infatua- 
tion :  let  him  be  cured  of  it  by  surgical  incision,  however  cruel  ! 
Shall  we  say  that  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  Measure  for  Measure  are 
connected  by  a  certain  contrast  and  resemblance  ?  In  each  the 
world  is  bubbling  with  corruption.  The  mighty  persons  of  the 
earth  in  the  one  play  are  as  ignoble  as  the  mean  persons  of  the  other  ; 
the  confraternity  of  Mistress  Overdone  includes  the  champions  of 
the  world  and  their  renowned  lady-loves  ;  the  worldly  wisdom  of  the 
Duke  is  lowered  and  broadened  into  the  all-embracing  but  wholly 
mundane  experience  of  Ulysses  ;  and  in  this  sorry  society  it  is  from 
worldly  wisdom  alone  that  we  can  hope  for  any  rescue  or  deliver- 
ance, for  here  we  find  no  saintly  Isabella,  but  a  Cressida,  offering 
her  lips  to  every  solicitor  of  the  Grecian  tents. 

The  spirit  of  mirth  withdrew  itself  for  a  time  from  Shakespeare's 
art.  He  could  still  write  comic  scenes,  but  they  were  used  to 
deepen  the  effects  of  tragedy.  The  grave-diggers  of  Hamlet,  the 
porter  turning  the  key  of  hell-gate  on  the  night  of  murder  in  Mac- 
beth, Lear's  poor  fool  jesting  across  the  storm  upon  the  heath,  the 

1  On  this  subject,  see  The  War  of  the  Theatres,  by  Mr.  |.  H.  Prnninv.n,  1^9-,  and  The 
Stage- Quarrel  between  Ben  Jonson  and  the  so-called  Poetasters  by  R.  A.  Small  ( Brcslau,  1899). 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      659 

clown  whose  basket  of  figs  conceals  the  worm  of  Nilus  —  these  are 
humorous  figures  created  in  the  service  of  pity  and  terror.  Shake- 
speare did  not  return  to  comedy  until  his  perception  of  the  world 
and  human  life  had  been  purified  by  the  tragic  katharsis.  With 
every  faculty  of  his  mind  labouring  at  its  highest,  he  had  pursued 
a  long  dramatic  inquisition  of  the  evil  that  is  in  the  world  and  in 
the  heart  of  man.  He  had  not  retreated  into  any  facile  creed  of 
pleasant  optimism,  but  boldly  explored  the  face  of  night,  and  night 
had  brought  out  the  stars.  Such  love  as  that  of  Cordelia,  such 
loyalty  as  that  of  Kent,  could  be  fully  revealed  only  in  and  through 
the  darkness.  Man  pleased  Shakespeare  and  woman  also,  when  he 
wrote  his  tragedies,  else  the  players  would  have  had  Icnten  enter- 
tainment ;  for  a  drama  founded  upon  misanthropy  would  have  been 
unendurable.  In  Tlinon  of  Athens  the  poet  exhibits  misanthropy  as 
the  evasion  of  weakness  from  the  ruins  of  a  self-indulgent  optimism, 
and  we  may  say  that  in  Thnon  of  Athens  he  bade  farewell  to  gloom. 
Shakespeare's  latest  comedies  —  Pericles  (as  far  as  it  is  his),  C\m- 
beline,  The  Winter's  Tale,  The  Tempest — form  a  group,  which  is 
distinguished  by  a  special  character.  The  atmosphere  is  light  and 
pellucid,  like  that  which  follows  a  thunder-storm.  There  is  a  great 
and  wide  serenity  abroad  •,  the  heavens  seem  more  spacious,  and 
they  bend  down  to  embrace  the  margins  of  the  land.  The  healing 
influences  of  nature  are  felt  in  the  country  lanes  where  Autolycus 
sings  his  tirra-lirra,  and  the  meadows  where  Perdita  follows  her 
sheep,  on  the  seacoast  of  Tarsus  where  Marina  bears  her  basket 
of  flowers,  among  the  wild  Welsh  mountains  with  the  gallant  sons 
of  Cymbeline,  on  the  enchanted  island  full  of  u  sounds  and  sweet 
airs  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not."  The  life  of  cities  and  courts 
had  lost  much  of  its  attraction  for  one  who  perhaps  was  now  find- 
ing repose  and  restoration  among  the  Warwickshire  fields.  Hut 
Shakespeare  did  not  plead,  in  the  manner  of  Rousseau,  for  a  rever- 
sion to  the  primitive  conditions  of  humanity  ;  he  could  smile  at 
Gonzalo's  imaginary  commonwealth,  where  property  has  no  exist- 
ence ;  he  saw  in  Caliban  the  rudimentary  man  not  half  informed 
with  soul ;  he  had  faith  in  an  art  which  mends  nature,  while  yet  it 
is  an  art  which  nature  makes.  And  nature  itself,  with  all  of  human 
life,  seems  to  hang,  dreamlike  and  yet  real,  in  the  encompassing 


660      Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist 

power  of  something  that  is  above  nature  and  that  means  well,  how- 
ever little  we  can  trace  its  ways.  Dian  appears  to  Pericles  in  a 
vision,  guiding  him  to  her  temple  where  joy  awaits  him  ;  the  inno- 
cence of  Hermione  is  vindicated  by  the  oracle  of  Apollo  ;  Posthu- 
mus  in  prison  is  visited  by  Jupiter,  giving  him  assurance  of  divine 
succour  —  "whom  best  I  love  I  cross";  Prospero  is  aided  in  his 
beneficent  designs  by  ministering  elemental  spirits.  The  growing 
resources  of  the  Jacobean  stage  assisted  the  dramatist  in  scenic 
effects,  to  which  he  imparted  a  beautiful  significance.  The  temper 
of  these  latest  plays  is  a  temper  of  reconciliation  ;  the  wrongs  of 
life  are  present,  but  for  those  who  can  transcend  the  baser  passions 
they  work  for  good.  Injuries  are  felt  but  are  forgiven  ;  broken 
bonds  of  affection  are  reunited  ;  the  lost  are  restored  to  hearts  that 
have  loved  and  suffered.  "  The  oldest  hath  borne  most,"  savs 
Albany  in  the  closing  lines  of  King  Lear.  The  old  are  seen  in 
these  last  romances  of  Shakespeare  as  experienced  in  suffering, 
caused  by  the  offence  of  others  or  by  the  errors  of  their  own  hearts  ; 
but  they  have  learnt  through  suffering  a  certain  detachment  from 
the  greed  of  personal  gain,  and  they  lean  over  the  joy  of  young 
hearts,  still  immersed  in  the  innocent  egoism  of  youth,  with  a  fond 
protectiveness.  Cymbeline  and  his  recovered  sons,  Pericles  and 
Marina,  Hermione  and  Perdita,  Prospero  and  Miranda  —  it  is  the 
same  sentiment,  varied  and  repeated,  in  each  of  its  exemplars.  Cer- 
tain indications  that  Shakespeare  was  loosening  his  connection  with 
the  theatre  are  present  in  these  plays.  He  could,  as  in  the  instance 
of  Pericles  and  perhaps  in  those  of  King  Henry  nil.  and  The  Two 
Noble  Kinsmen  contribute  fragments  to  a  drama  in  which,  as  a  whole, 
he  took  little  interest.  In  plays  of  which  he  is  the  sole  author,  his 
dramatic  energy  flags  at  times,  to  be  renewed  where  the  subject 
moved  his  feelings  or  charmed  his  imagination.  The  versification 
is  breeze-like  in  its  freedom,  but  sometimes  the  brce/e  falls  away 
and  sometimes  it  wanders  with  too  vague  an  aim.  The  treatment 
of  time  passes  from  the  extreme  of  romantic  license,  as  in  The 
Winter's  Tale,  to  the  strictest  observation  of  the  rule  of  unity  in 
The  Tempest.  In  Pericles,  the  earliest  of  these  romances,  Shake- 
speare cared  only  for  certain  scenes  and  situations.  In  Cymbeline, 
wherever  Imogen,  the  loveliest  figure  in  his  gallery  of  portraits  of 


Shakespeare  as  a  Comic  Dramatist      66 1 

women  appears,  we  are  certain  to  receive  his  finest  workmanship. 
Hermione  and  Perdita  wholly  possessed  his  imagination,  while  a 
crude  sketch  sufficed  tor  the  jealousy  of  Leontes.  The  Tempest,  if 
we  set  aside  the  laborious  jesting  of  Antonio  and  Sebastian  (designed 
to  express  the  barren  brain  that  often  accompanies  a  callous  heart), 
is  wrought  with  equal  power  from  the  first  scene  to  the  lasc. 

Perhaps  the  conjecture  is  well  founded  that  The  Tempest,  with  its 
masque  of  wedding  blessings,  was  written  for  the  marriage  of  Prin- 
cess Elizabeth  to  Frederick,  Elector  Palatine,  in  February,  1613. 
Perhaps  it  was  Shakespeare's  latest  play.  And  it  may  not  be  alto- 
gether an  idle  notion  of  the  poet  Campbell,  that  in  Prospero's 
breaking  his  magic  stafF  and  dismissing  his  airy  spirits  we  have  the 
farewell  to  the  stage  of  the  great  enchanter  who  had  summoned 
Prospero  into  being. 

Shakespeare  found  poetic  comedy  in  its  rudiments ;  he  left  it 
fully  formed.  He  brought  together  its  various  elements  and  or- 
ganized them  to  fulfil  the  functions  of  a  single  living  spirit.  He 
made  laughter  wise,  and  taught  seriousness  how  to  be  winning  and 
gracious.  Through  no  ascetic  doctrine  but  by  virtue  of  the  spirit 
of  life  and  beauty  he  purified  the  drama  from  the  dulness  of  what 
is  gross,  and  kept  its  temper  above  the  seductions  of  sentimental 
morals  and  a  nerveless  lubricity.  Wit,  fancy,  grace,  constructive 
dexterity,  are  found  among  his  successors.  Shakespeare's  sane  out- 
look upon  life  as  a  whole,  his  gentleness  of  strength  in  dealing  with 
the  passions,  his  reserve  of  power,  his  moral  wisdom,  were  lost  to 
English  comedy  when  Prospero  abjured  his  magic  and  retired  to  the 
duties  of  his  Stratford  lordship  of  the  soil. 

EDWARD  DOWDEN. 


INDEX 


OF    HISTORICAL    AND    CRITICAL    MATERIALS 


ARKKDKKN,  RECORDS  OF,  xxxviii. 

Acolastns,  the,  by  Gnapheus  (\V.  Fullo- 
nius),  transl.  by  Palsgrave,  Ixx,  Ixxi, 
Ixxxi. 

Acting  and  actors  :  in  churches,  xiii,  xv, 
xix,  xxi;  in  schools,  xiv,  l\i\;  in 
churchyards,  xii;  by  crafts,  xviii,  xx, 
xxxiii ;  the  councils  against  mimi, 
xix,  xl;  actors  of  Wakefield,  xxv; 
mummers,  xl;  English  actors  in  Ger- 
many, xlv;  acting  at  Cambridge,  Ixxi, 
197  ;  Udall  and  school  actors,  98; 
Lyly  and  boy  actors,  265-268,  270, 
279;  Greene  and  the  companies,  399, 
403,  408,  411,  418;  Porter  and  the 
companies,  515,  516,  519-522,  524, 
526-527. 

Admiral's  men,  the,  (i.e.  under  patron- 
age of  Lord  Charles  Howard,  Earl  of 
Nottingham,  11585-1603)  and  Greene, 
403,  408,  410;  and  Porter,  515-517, 
520-528,  ft  passim. 

Agamemnon*  Dekker  and  Chettle's,  523. 

Agrippa,  Henry  Cornelius  (von  Xettes- 
heimj,  281. 

Alberti,  his  Wiilodoxeos,  Ixvii. 

Alhyon  Knight,  Ixxxvi. 

Alcmicon,  the  play  of,  268. 

Alda,  Latin  play  by  \Yilliamof  Blois,  xvii. 

Aldrit  h.  Robert,  and  Udall,  92. 

Alencon,  the  Jut  </',  and  Endymion,  268. 

Alexander,  the  Life  of  by  Plutarch,  269, 
283,  et  seq. 


Alexander  and  Campaspe,  by  Lyly,  edi- 
tion of,  with  essay,  by  Professor  Baker, 
263-333;  dates,  sources,  literary  esti- 
mate, etc.,  268-276. 

Alexander  and  Lodoivick,  by  Martin 
Slater,  523,  526. 

Alexandrine,  the  Middle  English,  189. 

Allegory,  and  the  drama,  xxxvii,  xl,  Ixxxi, 
xcii,  267. 

Alleyn,  Edward,  and  Greene's  plays,  408, 
410;  catalogue  of  his  MSS.  at  Dul- 
wich,  515;  acquaintance  with  Porter, 

524- 
Alleyn,  Richard,  an  actor  in  the  Admiral's 

company,  524. 
All    for     Money,     Lupton's,    xlviii,    li, 

Ixxxvi. 

Allott,  his  England'1  s  Parnassus,  421. 
Airs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  Shakespeare's, 

191,  656. 
Alphonsus,    Emperor    of    Germany,    by 

Chapman,  attributed  to  Peele,  336. 
Alphvnsits,  King  of  Arragon,   (.'omicall 

Historic  of,  by  Greene,  389,403-405, 

407,  410,  41 1,  421. 

Andria,  of  Terence,  the  English  transla- 
tion of,  Ixviii,  Ixxi,  107. 
Antichrist  legend,  Protestant  version  of 

the,  Ixxv. 
A  pins  and  I'irginia,  'I  he  tragical  comedy 

of,  by  K.  1$.,  Ixxxvi,  141,  336,  341. 
Apollodorus    Tarsensis,    compared    with 

Peele,  337. 
663 


664 


Index 


Apuleius,  Arlington's  translation  of  his 
Metamorphoses  of  the  Golden  Ass,  a 
possible  source  of  Peek's  '  Meroe,' 

346,  383- 

Arber,  Professor  E.,  his  English  Garner, 
89;  his  reprint  of  Roister  Doister,  90, 
104,  194;  his  Transcripts  of  the  Sta- 
tionrrs*  Registers,  97,  197,  347,  et pas- 
sim. 

Archaologia,  on  Udall,  93. 

Archi-'  fur  das  Studium  der  neueren 
Sprachen,  on  Peele,  348. 

Aretino,  his  Poliscene,  Ixvii. 

Ariosto,  his  I  Suppositi,  Ixviii,  Gascoigne's 
translation  of,  Ixxv,  Ixxxiv;  compared 
with  Peele,  337;  his  Orlando  Furioso, 

389- 

Argumentative  plays,  de-bats,  and  contro- 
versial morals,  Ixv,  Ixvi,  Ixxv,  xci; 
Hey  wood's,  10. 

Arraignment  of  Paris,    The,   by   Peele, 

336,   341- 
Ascension,  The,  Wakefield  play  of,  xxvi, 

xxvii. 

Ascham.  Roger,  referred  to,  135. 
Asotus,  the,  by  Macropedius,  Ixx. 
Ass,  Feast  of  the,  xx,  xxi. 
As  You  Like  It,  by  Shakespeare,  Ixv,  275, 

645,  654,  655. 

BABIO,  a  Latin  elegiac  comedy,  xviii. 

Baker,  D.  E.  (with  Reed  and  Jones),  his 
Biographia  Dramatica,  200,  348. 

Baker,  Professor  G.  P.,  Critical  Essay  on 
Lyly,  his  life  and  place  in  comedy, 
with  special  reference  to  Alexander 
and  Campaspe,  263-277;  edition  of 
A.  and  C.,  with  notes,  278-333. 

Bale,  Bishop,  his  Catalogus,  xviii,  89,  93; 
translation  of  Pannnachius,  Ixx,  Ixxi; 
his  Kyng  Johan,  Ixxii,  Ixxv. 

Ballad  plays,  xli. 

Bandello,  645. 

Barclay,  Alexander,  and  fool-literature, 
lii,  liii. 


Bardani,  xli. 

Barry,  Lodowick,  the  song  of  "Three 
merrie  men "  in  his  Ram  Alley, 
352. 

Bartholomew  Fayre,  by  Ben  Jonson,  In- 
duction to,  410. 

Basoche,  clercs  de  la,  Ixvi. 

Battle  of  Alcazar,  The,  by  Peele,  335,337, 
341- 

Baucis,  a  Latin  elegiac  comedy,  xviii. 

Bayne,  on  Henry  Porter  in  Diet.  Nat. 
Biog.,  519. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  the  play 
within  a  play,  343. 

Beaux  Stratagem,  The,  by  Farquhar,  re- 
ferred to,  429. 

Bernhardi,  his  R.  Greene's  Leben  u. 
Schriften,  397,  411. 

Bewick  and  Grahame,  the  ballad,  re- 
ferred to,  366. 

Bibbiena,  Cardinal  de,  his  Calandria, 
Ixviii. 

Biblical  miracles,  xiii-xxxvii;  genre 
drama,  idyllic  or  heroic  miracle,  Ixxvi. 

Bien-Avise  et  Mal-Avise,  a  French  mo- 
ralite,  liii,  Ixxii. 

Birde,  William,  and  Henry  Porter,  516. 

Blacke  Battman  of  the  Xorth,  Porter's 
relation  to  the  play,  515,  521,  522. 

Blank  Verse,  Peele's,  339,  340;  Greene's, 
404,  407,  414,  417;  on  the  rhetorical 
quality  of  dramatic;  examination  of 
Greene's  practice,  and  a  few  general 
conclusions,  503-513. 

Bloody  Brother,  The,  by  Fletcher,  Jonson, 
et  al.,  parodies  "Three  merry  men," 

352. 

Blount,  Edward,  publisher  of  Lyly's 
plays,  269,  276. 

Blyssyd  Sacrament,  The,  Croxton  play  of, 
xxxix. 

Boase  and  Clark,  Register  of  Univ.  Ox- 
ford, and  the  two  Henry  Porters, 
518. 

Boccaccio,  G.,  645. 


Index 


665 


Bodel,    Jean,   his   play  of   St.  jV 
xvi. 

Bojardo,  his  Titnone,  Ixviii. 

Bower,  his  Scotichronicon,  on  Robin 
Hood,  xli. 

Bower,  the  R.  B.  of  A  fins  and  I'irginia 
(Kleay's  conjecture),  Ixxxvi,  336. 

Boy  Bishop,  the  election  of  the,  xx,  xxi. 

Bradley,  Henry,  mentioned,  Ixxii ;  his 
Critical  Essay  on  Gammer  Gut-toil's 
Nedle,  197-204 ;  date  of  Gammer 
Gurtott's  ^\'ei/le,  and  its  authorship, 
by  \Vm.  Stevenson,  197  ;  place  of  G. 
G.  _V.  in  the  history  of  comedy,  202  ; 
dialect,  203  ;  previous  editions  and 
the  present  text,  204 ;  edition  of  G. 
G.  .V.,  205-257  ;  appendix,  259. 

Brand,  the  Rev.  John,  his  Popular  An- 
tiquities, 127.  192. 

Brandl,  Professor  A.,  his  Quellen  u. 
Forschungen  if.  weltlichen  Dramas 
in  England,  referred  to,  Ix,  Ixxiii, 
Ixxiv,  Ixxx,  Ixxxii,  Ixxxvii. 

Brandt,  Sebastian,  his  Narrenschiff,  lii, 
liii. 

Braserose,  the  College  Register  of,  and 
Henry  Porter,  520. 

Bridges,  Dr.  John,  and  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  .\~edle,  199;  his  Defence  of  the 
Government  oj  the  Church,  200. 

Briggs,  the  Rev.  Thomas,  his  copy  of 
Koister  Doister,  97. 

Broome,  William,  and  Alex,  ami  Camp., 
276. 

Brotherhood  in  Arms,  Scott  on  the  insti- 
tution, 366. 

Brown,  Professor  J.  M.,  on  Greene  {An 
Early  J\ival  of  Shakespeare,  Auck- 
land, 1877),  402,  405,  410,  415, 
417. 

Brute  Grenshillde,  and  Henslowe,  523. 

Biicher,  K.,  Arbeit  u.  Khythmus,  referred 
to,  on  songs  of  labour,  384. 

Buffeting,  The,  Wakefield  play  of,  xxvii, 
xxviii. 


Bugbears,  The,  a  comedy  of  intrigue, 
Ixxxviii. 

Bulivus,  on  the  Ludus  de  S.  Katharina, 
xiv. 

Bullen,  Mr.  A.  H.,  his  edition  of  Peele, 
346,  348  ;  see,  also,  notes  to  Gum- 
mere's  edition  of  O.  W.  T.;  on 
Henry  Porter,  519. 

Burby,  Cuthbert,  publisher,  and  Greene's 
plays,  418,  etc. 

Burlesque  in  church  and  festival  plays, 
xix-xxi  ;  in  miracle  cycles,  xxiv,  xxix, 
xxxvi  ;  in  farces,  Ixv,  Ixvi ;  in  school 
plays,  Ixxi-lxxii,  Ixxv. 

CADMAN,  Thos.,  and  Lyly's  plays,  276. 
Cain,  the  York  play  of,  xxv. 
Calandria,  the,  by  Bibbiena,  Ixviii. 
Calisto    and  Melibcea,    by  Cota  and  de 

Rojas,  Ixviii;  the  English  play,  Ixxii. 
Cambyses,  King  of  Per  da,  etc.,  by  Thomas 

Preston,  lii,  liii,  Ixxxvi,  342. 
Camden's  Proverbs,  108,  194,  et passim. 
Campaspe,  by  Lyly,  263-333. 
Cante-fable,   reminiscences   of  the,  356, 

375- 

Carde  of  Fancie,  The,  by  Greene,  the 
Dedication  to,  403. 

Carle  off  C.arlile,  the  poem,  127. 

Carmina  Burana,  referred  to,  191. 

Carpenter,  Professor  F.  I.,  his  edition  of 
Wager's  Marie  Magdalene  (Univer- 
sity of  Chicago  Press),  xciv. 

Castell  of  Perseverance,  The,  play  of, 
xlvii,  xlviii,  1,  li,  Iviii. 

Caxton,  William,  his  translation  of  the 
Legenda  Aurea,  xxxi,  xliv;  his  Prol. 
Eneydos,  115. 

Chaderton,  William,  his  play  and  Gam- 
mer Gurton,  198. 

Challenge  for  Beauty,  A,  by  T.  Hey  wood, 

521- 
Chalmers,  Alexander,  his  English  Poets, 

191. 
Chapman,  George,  Ixxxviii;  and  Lyly, 


666 


Index 


275;   and  Porter,  517,  524,  533;   his    ! 
Humerons   Dayes   Alirth,    527;    and 
Shakespeare,  658. 

Chappell's  Popular  Music  of  the   Olden    \ 
Time  and  the  song  of  "  Three  merrie 
men,"  352. 

Character,  portrayal  of  in  miracles,  xxxi, 
xxxiii;  in  marvels,  etc.,  xxxix,  xli;  in 
morals,  lii-liv,  Ixii-lxiii  ;  in  other 
plays,  Ixix,  Ixxxvii,  xcii;  and  see  under 
Authors  and  Comedies. 

Chaucer,  xix;  the  episode  after  his  style, 
Ixv,  Ixvi;  and  Heywood,  10-13;  re~ 
ferred  to,  127,  398,  426;  and  see 
notes  to  A'.  D. ;  on  "  hunting  the 
letter,"  374. 

Chester  Cycle,  The,  of  miracle  plays,  xxiii, 
xxiv,  xxix. 

Chettle,  Henry,  his  relations  with  Greene  : 
his  Kind  Hart's  Dreame,  419;  his 
J\obert  Greene  to  Pierce  Pennilesse, 
422;  and  the  '  Groatsworth  Group,' 
423,  424;  his  relations  with  Porter, 
515-517,  522,  524;  his  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  657. 

Child,  Professor,  on  Robin  Hood  plays, 
xl;  on  St.  George  plays,  xliii,  176. 

Childe  Maurice,  reference  to,  359. 

Childe  Rowland,  a  possible  reference  to, 
in  O.  IV.  T.,  345,  354,  356. 

Children  as  players,  14,  98.  266,  267, 
270,  275,  276. 

Christ  led  up  to  Calvary,  the  York  mir- 
acle of,  xxvii. 

Chronicle  play,  The  English,  Ixxvi,  Lyly 
and,  270. 

Cicero,  Lyly's  indebtedness  to,  267. 

Cinthio,  Giraldi,  Shakespeare's  indebted- 
ness to,  645. 

Clergy,  the,  and  miracle  plays,  xiii,  xviii- 
xx. 

Clown,  the,  xlvii,  xlviii,  li,  lii,  liv,  388, 
430,  644-646,  649,  651,  655. 

tio,  one  of  the  Wakelield  plays, 
see  Buffeting. 


Collier,  J.  Payne,  references  to  his  His- 
tory of  Dramatic  Poetry  and  Annals 
of  the  English  Stage,  Illustrations  of 
Old  English  Literature,  Henslowe 's 
Diary,  Memoirs  of  Alleyn,  etc.,  xiv, 
xx,  xl,  xlii,  xlix,  Ivi,  Iviii,  Ixxiv,  Ixxvii, 
Ixxix,  Ixxxvii,  Ixxxviii,  Ixxxix,  97,  346, 
409,417,  515,517,  518,  523,  et passim; 
his  Old  Ballads,  167. 

Colman,  George,  the    elder,  his  Jealous 

W'fa  53°- 

Colwell,  Thomas,  publisher  of  Gammer 
Gurton,  197,  199,  20 1,  and  of  the 
Disobedient  Child. 

Comedy  in  England,  Beginnings  of,  by 
C.  M.  Gayley,  xiii-xcii,  liturgical  frag- 
ments, early  saints'  plays  and  paro- 
dies, xiii;  comedy  of  ridicule,  xx;  the 
miracle  cycles  in  their  relation  to 
comedy,  xxi;  dramatic  value  of  the 
English  miracle  plays,  xxxi;  the  con- 
tribution of  later  "  marvels  "  and  early 
secular  plays,  xxxvii-xxxviii;  the 
Devil  and  the  Vice,  xlvi;  the  indebt- 
edness of  comedy  to  the  Vice,  liii-liv; 
the  relation  between  miracle,  moral, 
and  interlude,  liv;  the  older  morals 
in  their  relation  to  comedy,  Ivii  ; 
the  dramatic  contribution  of  the 
older  morals,  Ixii;  period  of  transi- 
tion, farce  and  romantic  interlude, 
Ixiv;  period  of  transition,  school  of 
interlude  and  controversial  moral, 
'Christian  Terence'  and  comedia 
sacra,  Ixix;  polytypic,  or  fusion,  plays, 
Ixxvii;  survivals  of  the  moral  inter- 
lude, Ixxxv;  the  movement  toward 
romantic  comedy,  Ixxxvii;  conclu- 
sion regarding  the  requisites  of  com- 
edy, xci;  comedy  compared  with 
tragedy,  xxxi,  xxxvii-xxxviii,  Ixi-lxiv, 
639;  elements,  kinds,  and  relation  to 
society,  xci,  635,  648;  pastoral,  4, 
268;  in  miniature,  10;  emancipation 
from  miracle  and  moral,  15;  Coinnic- 


Index 


667 


dia  dell1  arte,  Ixviii;  see  also  under 
Allegory,  Romantic,  Manners,  Hu- 
mours, Latin,  Woman,  Prose,  Plot, 
Character. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  The,  by  Shakespeare, 
648,  650. 

Common  Conditions,  the  play  of,  Ixxxiii, 
Ixxxviii,  336,  341,  342. 

Comodey  of  Umers,  The,  526,  528,  533. 

Complayni  of  Scotland,  The,  folk-tale  in, 

345- 

Comus,  The,  of  Milton,  and  Old  Wives'1 
7ak,  348,  364,  378. 

Conflict  of  Conscience,  The,  by  Nathaniel 
Woocles,  xlix,  li,  Ixxxvi,  426. 

Congreve,  William,  the  character  of 
True'  in  his  Love  for  Love,  536. 

Conny- Catching,  Greene's  pamphlets  on, 
398,  418  ;  The  Defence  of,  408. 

Conscious  Lovers,  The,  by  Steele,  '  Lu- 
cinda '  in,  429. 

Conspiracy,  The,  York  and  Wakefield, 
plays  of,  xxv,  xxvi,  xlvi. 

Contes,  the  French,  xvii,  Ixv. 

Conversion  of  St.  Paul,  The,  Digby  play 
of,  xxx,  1,  Ixxxi. 

Cooper,  W.  D.,  his  Extracts  from  the  Cor- 
pus Christi  Register,  89  ;  his  edition 
of  Roister  Doister,  104,  191,  194,  and 
frequently  in  notes  to  R.  D. 

Copland,  publisher  of  Robin  Hood  plays, 
xl. 

Cornish  Plays,  The,  xxiii,  xxiv,  xlvii. 

Corpus  Christi,  Feast  of,  xiv,  xx. 

Cotgrave's  Dictionary,  108,  194,  et  pas- 
sim. 

Council  of  the  Jnus,  The,  Coventry  play 
of,  1. 

Council  of  Treves,  The,  xi. 

Courthope,  Mr.  W.  ].,  his  History  of  Eng- 
lish Poetry,  xxxvii,  Ixiii,  Ixiv. 

Courtney,  Bishop,  vs.  Feast  of  Fools,  xxi. 

Coventry  Gild  Plays,  The,  xxiii ;  and  see 
under  J\'-tcnun. 

Coventry,  The  Old  I.eet  Book  of,  xlvi. 


Coventry  Plays,  The,  so-called,  of  Corpus 

Christi,  xxiii,  xxiv,  xxix,   xlviii,   Iviii, 

Ixxvii. 
Crafts,  in  the  religious  drama,  xviii,  xxxi, 

etc. 
Cranmer,  Archbishop,  on  prayers  for  the 

dead,  193. 
Creede,  Thomas,    publisher   of  some  of 

Greene's  plays,  403-405,  415,  420. 
Creizenach,    Professor   Wilhelm,  his    Ge- 

schichte  d.    neueren  Dramas,  bac.  I, 

II,    mentioned,    xvi,    xviii,    xix,    xxi, 

xxxvi,  xlv,  Ixx,  Ixxiv. 
Crocus,  his  play  of  Joseph,  Ixx. 
Croxton   Play,  The,   of  the    Sacrament, 

xxxix. 

Crucifixion,   The,  play  of,  xxii,  xxvii. 
Cushman,  Professor  L.  \V.,  his  Devil  and 

Vice    in    English  Dram.  Lit.,  xlvii- 

xlix,  liii. 
Cycles,   the    Fnglish    miracle,   xviii,   xxi, 

xxxi,  etc. 
Cymbeline,  Shakespeare's,  645,  659,  660  ; 

the    song,    "Hark,  hark,  the   Lark" 

suggested  by  one  of  Lyly's,  322. 

DAMON  AND  PITH  IAS,  by  Richard  Ed- 
wardes,  Ixxviii,  Ixxxiv,  Ixxxvii,  xcii, 
268,  269. 

Daniel,  The  History  of,  by  Hilarius,  xv. 

Daryus,  King,  xlix,  Ixxvi,  Ixxxvi. 

David  and  Bethsabe  (  The  Love  of  King 
David,  etc.),  by  Peele,  335,  336,  341. 

Davidson,  Professor  Charles,  his  English 
Mystery  Plays,  xxxviii. 

Day,  John,  his  intimacy  with  Porter,  524. 

Di-bats,  Dramatic,  Ixv. 

Dekker,  Thomas,  Ixxiii  ;  his  Satiro-J\Ias- 
ti.v,  191  ;  and  Lyly,  274;  "Three 
merrie  men "  in  Westward  Hoe, 
352;  \\\*Knighfs  Co njun 'ng  and  the 
'  Groatsworth  '  group  of  poets,  423  ; 
relations  with  Porter  and  Drayton, 
522;  with  Chettle,  ^23;  and  the 
'war  of  the  theatres,'  657,  658. 


668 


Index 


Descensus  Astraa,  by  Peele,  416. 

Despencers,  The,  by  Porter  and  Chettle, 
523. 

'  Devil,'  The,  and  the  '  Vice,'  xlvi-liv, 
Ivi,  Ixxiii,  499. 

Devil  is  an  Ass,  The,  by  Ben  Jonson, 
xlviii,  li,  liii. 

Devil  is  in  It,  The,  (ff  this  be  not  a  Good 
Play,  etc.),  by  Dekker,  xlviii. 

Dido,  The,  by  the  Master  of  St.  Paul's, 
Ixxi. 

Digby  Plays,  The,  edited  by  Dr.  Furni- 
vall,  xv ;  references  to,  xxix,  xxx,  xxxi, 
xlvii,  xlviii,  1,  Iv. 

Diogenes  Laertius,  his  Lives  of  the  Phi- 
losophers, 269,  280;  and  elsewhere  in 
notes  to  Campaspe. 

Disguisings,  xl. 

Disobedient  Child,  The,  by  Thomas  Inge- 
land,  xlvii,  li,  liii,  Iv,  Ixxxii,  Ixxv. 

Disputations,  Ixv. 

Doctor  Faustus,  by  Marlowe,  the  relation 
of  Friar  Bacon  to  it,  389,  413,  414. 

Dodsley,  Robert,  his  collection  of  Old 
English  Plays,  reeclited  by  W.  Carew 
llazlitt,  xx,  194,  430,  et passim. 

Don  Quixote,  an   English  :  —  '  Ralph  '  of   | 
the  Burning  Pestle  ;  foreshadowed  by 
'  Huanebango,'  343. 

Douce,  Francis,  his  Illustrations  of  Shake- 
speare, xxi,  xlix,  Hi,  128;  on  Porter, 

5 '8,  534- 
Dowden,    Professor,  A    Monograph    on 

William     Shakespeare    as    a    Comic 

Dramatist,  635-661. 
Downton  [Dowton,  Dunton,  or  Dutton], 

Thomas,  an    actor    in    the  Admiral's 

Company  in   Porter's  time,  515,  516, 

5'7.  524- 
Drayton,  Michael,  relations  with   Porter, 

Dekker,  etc.,  522. 
Dream  of  Pilate's  Wife,  the   York   play 

of  The,  xxv. 
Dublin,  the    History   of  the    City  of  by 

Whitelaw  and  Walsh,  xxxviii. 


Du  Meril,  E.,  Foes.  Pop.  lat.  antiq.  191. 

Dunbar,  William,  his  Will  of  Maister 
Andrew  Kennedy,  192. 

Durandus,  Rationale,  192. 

Dyce,  Alexander,  his  edition  of  Skelton, 
259;  of  Peele,  346,  348,  and  see  notes 
to  Gummere's  edition  of  O.  IV.  T., 
et  passim  ;  of  Greene,  402,  415,  420, 
430,  and  notes  to  Friar  Bacon;  of 
Porter's  2  A.  W.  A.,  515,  517,  518, 
535>  544>  and  frequently  in  notes  to 
the  present  edition. 

EBBSWORTH,  Roxburghe  Ballads,  and  "  O 

man  in  desperation,"  351. 
Ebert,    Professor   Adolf,    his    article    on 

Die  englischen  Afysterien  in  the  Jahr- 

buch  fiir    romanische  nnd  englische 

Literatur,  xxxii;    on  the  "ambiguous 

letter,"  150. 

Edward  I,  by  Peele,  335,  337,  383. 
Edward  III,  anonymous,  and   Greene's 

Orlando  and  Never  Too  Late,  410. 
Edward  VI,  Injunctions  under,  on  prayers 

for  the  dead,  193;  Statute  of  1547  on 

vagrancy,  193. 
Edwardes,    Richard,    and    Godly    Queen 

Hester,  Ixxxiii,  his  Damon  and Pithias, 

Ixxxiv;  and  Lyly,  271. 
Elizabeth,  and  Edwardes'  Palamon  and 

Arcile,  Ixxxiv;   prayers   for  the  dead, 

under,  and   her   relation  to  the  later 

edition  of  Roister  Doister,  193;  and 

Lyly,  266,  269;  and  Greene,  408,  409, 

416,  502. 
Ellis,  Mr.  IIavelock,his  edition  of  Porter's 

2  A.  W.A.,  515,  519,  531,  535,  554, 

and    frequently  in    the    notes    to    the 

present  edition. 
Ellis,  his    Original  Letters   of  Eminent 

Literary  Men,  89,  91. 
Elze,  Dr.  Karl,  on  a  verse  in  Friar  Bacon, 

510. 
Encomium   Lauri,  by  Gabriel  Harvey,  a 

line  in,  ridiculed  by  Peele,  373. 


Index 


669 


Endimion,  by  Lyly  (edited  by  Professor 
Baker),  265,  267,  269,  272,  291. 

Enfants  de  Maintenant,  Les,  a  French 
morality,  Ixxxii. 

Enfants  sans  souci,  their  softies,  Ixvi. 

Englands  Moitrninge  Gowne  and  Mourn- 
ing Garment,  412. 

England's  Parnassus,  by  Allott,  420. 

Eton,  Udall  at,  90. 

Euphues  and  Euphuism,  265,  267,  297, 
337,646. 

Eusebius,  xxxviii. 

Everyman,  the  Moralle  Play  of,  1,  liii, 
Iv,  Ivi,  Iviii. 

Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  by  Ben 
Jonson,  its  relation  to  Porter's  work, 
524,  530,  533. 

Ezekias,  by  Udall,  93. 

FABLIAUX,  xvii,  Ixv. 

Faire  Em  and  Greene's  Friar  Bacon, 
411,  412,  418,  427. 

Fairholt,  F.  W.,  his  edition  of  Lyly's 
dramatic  works,  276 ;  see  also  notes 
to  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 

Farce,  and  farce  interlude,  xviii,  xxxvii, 
Ixiv,  Ixvii  ;  French,  Ixv,  15. 

Farewell  to  Follie,  one  of  Greene's  pam- 
phlets, 398,  411,  412. 

Farewell  to  the  Famous  and  Fortunate 
Generals,  poem  by  Peele,  403. 

Ferbrand,  William,  publisher  of  Porter's 
2  A.  W.  A.,  534. 

Festival  Plays,  etc.,  xxxvii-xlvi. 

FJlagellacio,  The,  Wakefield  miracle  of, 
xxvi-xxviii. 

Fidei  Defensor,  use  of  the  title,  184. 

Fitzstephen,  William,  on  saints'  plays, 
xiv,  xv. 

Fleay,  Mr.  F.  G.,  his  Chronicle  History 
of  the  English  Stage,  Biographical 
Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  and 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  Ixxxii,  Ixxxiii, 
Ixxxvi,  Ixxxviii,  Ixxxix,  xci,  336,  339, 
347.  36o>  383.  399.  403.  4°4.  406, 


410,  412,  415,  418,  421,  424,  426, 
521,  523,  527,  528,  and  other  ref- 
erences. 

Fletcher,  John,  his  Bloody  Brother,  352  ; 
and  Shakespeare,  660. 

Fleury  Plays,  the,  of  St.  Nicholas,  xvi. 

Floegel,  Geschichte  d.  grotesk-komischen, 
neuarbeitet  von  Ebeling,  xlv. 

Fliigel,  Professor  Ewald,  Critical  Essay 
on  Udall,  89-104  ;  edition  of  Roister 
Doister,  105-189  ;  appendix  to  R.D., 
189-194;  also  Ixxviii ;  his  Lesebuch, 
69,  91,  194. 

Folk-lore,  the  background  of,  in  O.  }V. 
T.,  345-346. 

Folk  Lore  Journal,  specimens  from,  xliii. 

Fool,  literature  of  the,  lii ;  relation  to  the 
Vice,  xlvii-liv,  Ixxxii ;  in  Roister  Dois- 
ter, loo,  101  ;  in  Greene,  393,  430  ; 
in  Shakespeare,  644-646,  etc. 

Fools,  The  Feast  of,  xx,  Ixvi. 

Four  Elements,  The,  interlude  by  John 
Rastell,  Ixi,  Ixxi-lxxiv ;  referred  to, 
109. 

Four  Kynges,  523. 

Foure  P.P.,  the  play  called  The,  by  John 
Heywood,  9,  10. 

Foster's  Alumni  Oxonienses,  518. 

Frazer,  J.  G.,  The  Golden  Bough,  on 
the  "  death-index,"  cf.  O.  W.  T., 

345- 
Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay  ( The 

Famous  Historic  of  Frier  Bacon)  by 

R.   Greene,    edition    of,    with    essay 

and  notes,  by  C.  M.  Gayley,  433-503  ; 

appendix  on  the  versification  of,  503  ; 

mention    of,    xlviii,  li,  liv,    338,  389, 

410,  413,  426. 
"  Friar  Rush,"  231. 
Fulk  Fitz  IVarine,  The  Story  of,  127. 
Fuller's  Worthies,  cited,  65. 
Furnivall,  Dr.,  his  edition  of  the  Dig/>y 

Plays,  xxiii,  xxx,  xlvii,  Iv  ;    his  Polit. 

Kel.  and  Love  Songs,  191. 
Furnivall  Miscellany,  The,  xix. 


670 


Index 


GALLATHEA,  by  John  Lyly,  268. 

Gammer  Carton's  Nedle,  by  William 
Stevenson,  edition  of,  with  essay  on 
the  authorship,  date  and  qualities  of 
the  play,  by  Mr.  Henry  Bradley,  195- 
259  ;  other  mention  of,  Ixxiii,  Ixxviii, 
Ixx-lxxii,  xcii,  99,  121,  338,  342,  533. 

Gay  ley,  Professor  C.  M.,  Preface  to  this 
volume,  iii ;  An  Historical  View  of 
the  Beginnings  of  English  Comedy, 
xiii-xcii ;  regarding  Roister  Doister, 
97,  104  ;  regarding  Gammer  Gurton, 
198  ;  on  the  title  of  Old  Wives'1  Tale, 
347 ;  Critical  Essay  on  Greene's 
Life  and  the  Order  of  his  IVorks, 
397-431  ;  edition  of  P'rier  Bacon, 
433-502  ;  appendix  on  Greene's  ver- 
sification, 503-511.  Critical  Essay 
on  Henry  Porter's  Life  and  his  Place 
in  English  Drama,  513-536;  edi- 
tion of  Two  Angry  IV omen,  537-633. 

Gascoigne,  George,  his  Supposes,  Ixxviii, 
Ixxxiv,  517;  his  Glasse  of  Govern- 
ment, Ixxiv. 

Gentylnes  and  Xobylyte,  the  dialogue 
of,  8. 

Geoffrey,  Abbot  of  St.  Alban's,  and  the 
Ludus  de  S.  Katliarina,  xiv,  xvi. 

George-a- Greene,  the  Pinner  of  \Vake- 
field,  338,  392,  401,  533;  date  and 
authorship,  418-420. 

Germanic  Philologv,  Journal  of,  336. 

Giant  and  the  King ' s  Daughter,  the  tale 
of  the,  in  O.  W.  T.  354. 

Gillette's  Because  She  Loved  Him  So, 
mentioned,  529. 

Giraldus  Cambrensis,  referred  to,  426. 

Glasse  of  Government,  77ie,  by  Gas- 
coigne, Ixxiv. 

Gnapheus  (\V.  Eullonius),  his  Acolastus, 
Ixx,  Ixxi,  Ixxxi. 

Godly  Queene  //ester,  a  moral  play,  xxxiv, 
Ixxvi,  Ixxviii,  Ixxxiii. 

Godwin's  Lives  of  the  Necromancers,  281. 

Golden  Legend,  The,  of  the  Lives  of  the 


Saints,  translated  by  Caxton,  a  source 
for  plays,  xv,  xxxi,  xxxvii,  xliv. 

Gosche's  Jahrbuch,  names  of  the  Devil, 
190. 

Gosson,  his  Ephemerides  of  Phialo,  249; 
on  dramatic  attractions,  341. 

Gower,  John,  and  'Titivillus,'  190,  and 
physique,  398. 

Graf,  Herman,  Der  JMiles  Gloriosus  im 
englischen  Drama,  190. 

Greban,  A.,  his  play  of  the  Passion, 
xxxvi. 

Greene,  Robert,  Monograph  on  his  place 
in  English  Comedy,  by  Professor 
Woodberry,  387-394  ;  Critical  Essay 
on  his  life  and  the  order  of  his  plays, 
with  edition  of  his  Frier  Bacon,  and 
appendix  on  his  versification,  by  Pro- 
fessor Gayley,  395-511;  life,  397; 
authorities  on,  397 ;  misapprehen- 
sions concerning  his  career,  398  ;  de- 
velopment as  dramatist  and  order  of 
plays,  402 ;  plays  conjecturally  as- 
signed to  him,  418  ;'  Young  juvenall ' 
and  the  comedie  '  lastly  writ,'  422  ; 
Prier  Bacon,  composition,  411,  stage 
history  and  materials,  425.  dramatic 
construction,  427,  previous  editions 
and  the  present  text,  430.  Other  men- 
tion, Ixxxii,  Ixxxv,  Ixxxvii,  xc  ;  and 
Lyly,  266,  and  Peele,  338-339,  and 
Porter,  517,  and  Shakespeare,  645, 
647 ;  his  Menaphon,  337  ;  dates  of 
his  Perimedes,  Pandosto,  Menaphon, 
Ciceronis  Amor,  Philomela,  398 ; 
Arbasto,  Morando,  Planetomachia, 
printed,  400. 

Greene's  I'ision,  400. 

Gregory  IX,  against  clerical  participation 
in  miracle  plays,  xix. 

Grim,  the  Collier  of  Croydon,  xlviii. 

Grimm,  J.,  Mythologie,  cited,  373. 

Grindal,  Archbishop,  192,  400. 

Gringoire,  his  I' Homme  Obstinc,  xlix. 

Griseldii,  play  of,  mentioned,  Ixxi. 


Index 


67, 


•Groatsworth  '  group  of  poets,  the,  422- 

423- 

Groatsworlh  of  Wit,  A,  by  Greene, 
397.  398.  400,  402. 

Cirosart,  Dr.  A.  B.,  his  edition  of  Xashe's 
works,  337,  351  ;  of  Harvey's,  359; 
of  Greene's  works,  387,  397,  403,  410, 
415,  416,  430  ;  article  in  Englische 
Studien,  418  ;  his  edition  of  Selimus, 
420;  on  the  authorship  of  A  Knack, 
424. 

Guevara,  Antonia  de,  his  Dial  of  Princes, 
used  by  Lyly,  267,  337. 

Gummere,  Professor  F.  B.,  edition  of 
Peele's  Old  Wines'  Taie  with  Critical 
Essay  on  the  author  and  the  play, 
notes  and  appendix,  333-384. 

Guy  of  Warwick,  cited,  115. 

HACKETT,    Thomas,   licensed    to    print 

Roister  Doisler,  97. 
Hales,  Professor  J.  \V.,  on  the  date  of 

Roister    Doister,    Englische    Studien, 

95- 
Halle,  Adam  de  la,  his  opera  of  Robin  et 

Marion,  xli. 
Halliwell    (and    Wright),  collection    of 

Reliauiif  Antiquic,  191. 
Hallhvell-Phillipps,   Mr.   J.   O.,  xli-xliii, 

xlv,  liii,  171,  194,  528. 
Hamlet,    the    early    play    attributed    to 

Thomas    Kyd,    427  ;     Shakespeare's, 

534.  658. 
Harrison's  Description  of  England,  117, 

167. 
Hartmann's   fwein,s.  similarity  in,  to  O. 

w.  T.,  373. 

Harvester's  song,  the,  in  O.  IV.  T., 
proposed  restoration  of,  383. 

Harvey,  Gabriel,  and  Lyly,  266,  348  ;  and 
Peele,  337,  340,  343  ;  and  Xashe,  in 
the  Trimming  of  Thomas  Nashe, 
359  ;  and  '  Huanebango,'  343,  345, 
358-359.  373.  383  5  and  Greene,  39cS, 
402,  423. 


Haslewood,  Joseph,  his  Ancient  Critical 
Essays  upon  English  Poets  and 
Poesy,  337. 

Hathaway,  R.,  and  Porter,  517. 

Haughton,  \V.,  and  Porter,  524. 

Hawkins,  Thomas,  his  Origin  of  the 
English  Drama,  Ixxvi,  24. 

Hazlitt,  \V.  C.,  his  edition  of  Dodsley's 
Old  Plays,  104,  194,  204,  535,  el 
passim. 

Heber,  Richard  {Bibliotheca  Heberiana 
in  British  Museum),  on  Porter,  517. 

Henno,  a  play  by  Reuchlin,  Ixix. 

Henry  II'.,  Parts  I  and  II,  Shake- 
speare's, Ixxxix,  534,  646. 

Henry  V.,  Shakespeare's,  653. 

Henry  I'/.,  Parts  I  and  II,  418,  427. 

Henry  VIII.,  Shakespeare's,  660. 

Henry  VI! I.,  the  usury  statutes  under, 
95-97  ;  his  song  of  "  Pastime,"  132. 

Henslowe,  Philip,  his  Diary,  and 
Greene,  405,  408,  411,  415,  418; 
and  Porter,  515,  517,  518,  520,  522, 
526-528. 

Ilerford,  Professor  C.  II.,  his  Literary 
Relations  of  England  and  Germany, 
Ixx,  Ixxiv,  Ixxvi,  Ixxxii,  Ixxxv,  90. 

Herod,  the  Wakefield  play  of,  xxvii. 

Heywood,  John,  Critical  Essay  on  his  life 
and  place  in  English  comedy,  with 
editions  of  his  Play  of  (lie  \Vether, 
and  his  Johan,  by  Mr.  A.  W.  Pollard, 
19-85  ;  life,  3  ;  Heywood  and  Sir 
Thomas  More,  5  ;  dramatic  de- 
velopment and  literary  estimate,  6- 
12;  his  Eoure  PP.,  Wether,  Wit 
and  I< oily,  l.o-'e,  6-1 1 ;  Pardoner  and 
Johan,  6,  assigned  to  him,  n; 
Wether,  early  editions  and  the 
present  text,  16 ;  his  two  achieve- 
ments, 16  ;  Johan,  previous  editions 
and  the  present  text,  61.  Other 
mention  of  II.,  xvii,  xli\,  Ivi,  lix,  Ixi, 
Ixvl-xviii,  Ixxviii,  Ixxxii,  89,  95,  96  ; 
his  Proverbes,  no,  191,  194,  275. 


672 


Index 


Heywood,  Thomas,  and   Henry  Porter, 

5'7»  521'  524,  526- 
Hilarius,  his  plays,  xiv-xvi. 
Hippe,  Max,  on  the  "Thankful  Dead" 

theme,  in  Herrig's  Archiv,  345. 
Historia  Histrionica,  Ixxxi. 
Histrio-Mastix  (attributed  to  Marston), 

xlviii. 
Hohlfeld,     Professor,    Die    altenglischen 

Kollectivmisterien,    in    Anglia,     Bd. 

XIX,  xxv. 

Hoker's  Piscator,  Ixxi. 
Holinshed,  R.,  Chronicles,  on  the  dearth 

of  corn  in  1523,  40,  117. 
Holland's    Translation  of  Pliny,  279  et 

set}. 

Homine  Obstine,  /',  xlix. 
Homme  Pecheur,  /',  xlix,  Ixxii. 
Hone,    \Yilliam,   his   Ancient  Mysteries, 

xxi,  xxxviii. 
Horestes,    by    John  Pikerynge,    xlix,    Hi, 

Ixxxvii,  204. 

Host,  the  miracle  of  the,  xxxix. 
Hot  Anger   Soon    Cold,  by   Porter  (with 

Chettle  and  Ben  Jonson),  522,  523. 
Hox    Tuesday     play,     the,    mentioned, 

xxxvii,  xli. 

Hrosvitha,  mentioned,  xvii. 
'  Huanebango  '  in  O.  IV.  T.,  and  Gabriel 

Harvey,  343,  345-359.  383- 
Humanists,  their  drama,  etc.,  Ixxiii,  Ixxvi, 

Ixxxii,  98. 
Humours,  the   comedy  of,  anticipations 

of.  Hi,  liv,  Ixiii,  Ixxxvi,  532,  et  passim. 
Hunt,  Joseph,   published    Porter's   2   A. 

W.  A.,  534. 
Hunter,    Joseph,     his      Chorus      Vatuin 

Anglicanorum    (in   the    British    Mu- 
seum), 518. 

Hunting  of  Cupid,  The,  by  Peele,  415. 
Ifyckescorner,  a  moral  interlude,  Ix,  Ixxi, 
Ixxiv  ;  referred  to,  133. 

IDEAL,  the,  in  comedy,  xv,  xxi,  xxx,  xxxi, 
xxxviii,  Iviii,  Ixi,  Ixii,  Ixix,  Ixxviii,  Ixxxii, 


Ixxxv,  Ixxxvii,  xcii  ;  in  Udall's,  99  ;  in 
Greene's,  390,  392,  394,  419, 428, 429  ; 
in  Shakespeare's,  637-643,  647,  648, 
651,  654-661. 

Induction,  the  use  of,  in  Old  Wines' 
Tale,  343  ;  in  plays  by  Greene, 
Shakespeare,  Xashe,  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  ;  Schwab's  thesis 
un>  343-344- 

Ingelaml,  Thomas,  his  interlude  of  The 
Disobedient  Child,  Ixxv. 

Innocent  III,  against  acting,  xix. 

Interludes  :  Interludium  de  Clerico  et 
Puella,  xvii,  xxxvii,  Ixvi  ;  interludes 
in  churches,  xx  ;  moral,  xl  ;  relation 
of  miracle,  moral,  and  interlude,  Iv  ; 
various  kinds  of  interlude,  Ivi  ;  causes 
of  improvement  in,  Ivii  ;  farce  and 
romantic  interlude,  Ixiv  ;  school  and 
controversial,  Ixxii  ;  Italian  models, 
Ixxxviii.  See  also  under  John  1  lev- 
wood. 

Intrigue  anil  passion,  plot  of,  xcii. 

Iphigenia,  a  children's  play,  268. 

JACKE   JrGKi.KR,   play  of,   xlix,   li,  Ixxii, 

Ixxviii,  Ixxix,  103,  107. 
Jack   t)ie   Giant-Killer,  the  story  of,  in 

connection  with  Old  Wives?  Tale,  345. 
Jack  Wilton,  by  Xashe,  266. 
Jacob  and  I:.sau,  Tlie  Ilistorie  of,  a  play, 

Ixxiv,  Ixxvii,  Ixxx,  Ixxxii. 
Jacobs,  J.,  English  J-'airv  Tales,  345,  359, 

362. 
James  IV,    The  Scottish  Historic  of,  by 

Greene,  Ixxxiii,  389,392,404,415,418, 

420,  427. 
feffes,  Anthony,  and   Humphrey,  actors 

in  the  Admiral's  company  in  Porter's 

time,  524. 
Tew,   the,   in   early   comedy,  xc  (Jew    of 

Malta,  etc.). 
Jobe,  A  History  of,  attributed  to  Greene, 

418. 
Joh,in    Johan,     7V/',   etc.,   A    mcry    play 


Index 


673 


betwene,  assigned  to  John  I  ley  wood, 
an  edition  with  critical  essay  and 
notes,  by  Mr.  A.  W.  Pollard,  1-19, 
59-87.  Other  mention,  xvii,  Ixix, 
Ixxxi,  533. 

Johan,  Kyng,  by  Bishop  Bale,  xlix,  Ixxii, 
Ixxv-lxxvii. 

John,  King  of  England,  The  Trouble- 
some Raigne  of,  attributed  to  Greene, 
418. 

Jonson,  Ben,  liii,  Ixxiii,  Ixxv,  Ixxxviii ; 
his  New  Inn  referred  to,  109  ;  and 
Lyly,  274,  275  ;  his  use  of  the  in- 
duction, 343  ;  and  Henry  Porter, 
515,  522,  533  ;  on  the  purpose  of 
comedy,  637,  645  ;  in  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  638,  657,  658. 

Joseph  and  Mary  Plays,  the,  of  York, 
Wakefield,  and  Coventry,  chivalrous 
and  romantic  quality  of,  xxix. 

Juby,  Ed.,  the  actor,  and  Greene,  401. 

yudidiim,  the  Waketield  play  of  The, 
xxvii,  xxix,  xlvi,  xlviii,  Ixxxi. 

Judith,  by  Macropedius,  Ixx. 

Jusserand,  M.  J.  J.,  on  I  ley  wood's  inter- 
ludes, Ixvi. 

KILLING  OF  THE  CHILDREN  OF  ISRAEL, 

the  Digby  play  of  the,  xxiii,  xxx. 
Kind  Harfs  Dreame,  by  Chettle,  419, 

422. 
Kirchmayer  (Naogeorgos),  his  Pamma- 

f/iius,  Ixv,  Ixx. 
Kirkman,  Francis,  his  catalogue  of  plays; 

Peele,  336  ;  Greene,  419;  Porter,  518. 
Kittredge,  Professor  G.  I,.,  on  Sir  Clyo- 

tnon,  336  ;  on  a  phrase  in  Alexander 

and  Campaspe,  303. 
Klein,  Professor  J.  L.,  his   Geschichte  d. 

englischen   Dramas,  xviii,  xxi,  xxxvi, 

lii,  Ixviii,  Ixx. 
Knack    to    Know    a     Knave,    A,    '  the 

comedie    last     writ"    (?),    compared 

with    I'riar     llacon,    and    with     the 

Looking- Glasse,   418,    424,   425   and 
2  x 


note,  427,  429,  457,  499  ;  mentioned, 

xlviii,  xc. 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle,    The,  by 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  342,  343. 
Koch,  Englische  Sludien,  note  in,  190. 
Kyd,  Thomas,  Ixxxviii;    and  Lyly,  273; 

and  Greene,  410. 

LACUNA,  the  metrical  use  of  in  dramatic 

blank  verse,  510. 
Lammerhirt,    G.     P.,     Unttrsuchungen, 

u.  s.  w.,  concerning  Peele,  341,  348. 

Langbaine,  G.,  his  Account  of  the  English 
Dramatick  Poets,  518. 

Langland,  xix  ;  his  Piers  Plowman,  xl, 
1 08,  109,  191,  etc. 

Latimer,  Bishop,  his  Sermons  (on  exorcis- 
ing the  devil),  192,  193. 

Latin,  —  tropes,  xiii ;  saints'  plays,  xiv- 
xvi ;  cultivation  of  Plautus  and  Ter- 
ence in  the  Middle  Ages  and  their 
impress  on  elegiac  comedy,  xvii  ; 
history  of  the  later  comedy,  Ixv, 
Ixvii. 

Leach,  A.  F. ,  Some  English  Plays  and 
Players  (in  the  Furnivall  Aliscel- 
lany},  xix. 

Lear,  King,  Shakespeare's,  418,  639, 
660. 

Lee,  Mr.  Sidney,  his  JAfe  of  Shakespeare, 
406,  408. 

Leicester,  the  Karl  of,  his  relation  to 
Endimion,  267 ;  to  Alexander  and 
Campaspe,  269  ;  his  players,  399. 

Legenda  Aurea,  by  Jacobus  Voragine, 
xliv  ;  see  also  under  Caxton. 

Legends,  xviii,  Ixxxviii. 

Leland,  John,  his  relations  with  Udall, 
89-92  ;  his  Collectanea,  89,  etc. 

Leo  X,  and  Hey  wood,  n. 

Life-Index,  the,  instance  of  in  O.  IV.  T., 

365- 

Like  ivil  to  Like,  quod  the  A-?v/  to  the 
Colier,  by  Ulpian  Fulwel,  xlvii,  xlviii, 
li,  lii,  Ixxxiv,  Ixxxvi,  108,  1 10,  342,  499. 


6/4 


Index 


Lime's  Light,  266. 

Liturgical  drama,  the,  xiii,  xx. 

Locher's  translation  of  the  Narrenschiff, 
Ix. 

Lock,  Henry,  his  Ecclesiastes,  266. 

Lodge,  Thomas,  and  Lyly,  266 ;  and 
Peele,  3.37  ;  and  Greene  ;  the  Look- 
ing-Glasse,  and  their  respective  con- 
tributions to  it,  405-407  ;  Lodge's 
Civil  Wars,  405,  407,  409,  415,  418, 
420-422;  and  Porter,  517;  and 
Shakespeare,  645. 

Longer  thou  Livest,  etc.,  by  W.  Wager, 
Ixxxvi. 

Look  About  You,  published  by  Ferbrand, 

534- 

Looking-  Glasse  for  London  and  England, 
A,  by  Greene  and  Lodge,  338,  352, 
404 ;  the  parts  written  by  Lodge, 
405  ;  characteristics  of  his  verse,  407, 
414,  415,  422,  425. 

Lorenz,  A.  O.  F.,  on  the  Miles  Gloriosus 
and  his  Parasite,  190. 

Loseley  Mss.,  The,  edited  by  A.  J.  Kempe,    ' 

9°>  93.  94- 
Love,    The  Play  of,  by  John  Hey  wood,    I 

xlix,  liii,  Ixvii,  Ixix,  8-12. 
Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Shakespeare's,  xli,    ' 

275,  427,  644,  648,  649,  650,  654. 
Love's    Metamorphosis,    by    Lyly,    266, 

268. 

Love  Prevented,  by  Porter,  521,  527. 
Lowen,  his  Prinz  Pickelhering,  xlv. 
Ludi  Sanctiores,  mentioned  by  Fitz- 

stephen,  xv. 

Ludi  Beata  Christina:,  xxxviii. 
Ludus    Coventrite   (seu    Ludus    Corporis 

Christi),    the    N-Town    plays,    com- 
monly assigned   to    Coventry,  which 

see. 
Ludus   de    S.    Katharina,    by    Geoffrey, 

xiv,  xvi. 

Ludus  ludentem  Luderum  ludens,  Ixxi. 
Ludus  super  Iconia  S.  Nicolai,  by  Hila- 

rius,  xiv,  xvi. 


Lusty  Juventus,  by  R.  Wever,  xlvii,  li, 
Ixxii,  Ixxvi. 

Lydgate,  John,  Hi. 

Lyly,  John,  Critical  Fssay  on  his  life  and 
place  in  Knglish  comedy,  by  Professor 
Baker,  263-276  ;  life  of  Lyly,  265  ; 
place  of  Euphues  in  English  litera- 
ture, 266 ;  Lyly's  plays,  subdivision 
of  them,  267  ;  date  and  sources  of 
Alexander  and  Campaspe,  268 ; 
literary  estimate  of  A.  and  C.,  269  ; 
Lyly's  development  as  a  dramatist, 
272  ;  place  in  English  Comedy,  273  ; 
previous  editions  of  A.  and  C.,  and 
the  present  text,  275  ;  Professor 
Baker's  edition  of  A.  and  C.,  277- 
333.  Other  mention,  Ixxxvii,  xc, 
348,  517,  646. 

Lyndsay,  Sir  David,  his  Thrie  Estatis, 
Ixxv. 

Lyric,  the,  in  the  plays  of  Lyly,  274 ;  of 
Greene,  391. 

MACBETH,  Shakespeare's,  658. 
Machiavelli,  X.,his  Discourses,  200. 
Macropedius,  his  Asotics  and  other  plays, 

Ixx  ;    his  Rebelles,  Ixxiv. 
Mactacio   Abel,    the  \Vakefield    play  of, 

xxviii. 
Magdalene,   The  Life  of  the,  in  Caxton's 

Golden  Legend,  xxx. 
Magnyfycence,  a  moral  play  by  Skelton, 

Iviii,  1 68. 
Maid's  Metamorphosis,  77te,  not  by  Lyly, 

266. 
Malone,    Edmund,    li,    430,    516,    518, 

534- 

Mamillia,  by  Greene,  397. 

Mankynd,  a  moral  play,  xlvii,  1,  li,  Ivi, 
Iviii,  lix,  Ix,  Ixxi.  Ixxiv,  Ixxvi,  Ixxvii. 

Manly,  Professor  |.  M.,  his  Specimens  of 
the  Pre-Shakespearean  Drama,  xiii, 
xliii,  104,  204,  239,  276,  283  ;  and  in 
notes  to  Roister,  Gammer  Gurton, 
and  Campaspe. 


Index 


675 


Manners,  of  contemporary  life  as  an  ele- 
ment in  drama,  xvi,  xvii,  xx,  xxi, 
xxviii,  xxix,  xxxv,  xxxvi,  xxxix,  xli, 
xlvi,  xlix-liv,  Iviii-lxii,  Ixiii,  Ixv,  Ixvii- 
Ixix,  Ixxii,  Ixxviii  ct  sea.,  xci ;  in  1  ley- 
wood,  4,  1 1  ;  in  Uilall,  99,  103  ;  in 
Stevenson,  202-204;  'n  !->''>'.  27'» 
275  ;  in  Peele,  341-344,  347  '<  in 
Greene,  391-394,  428-430  ;  in  Por- 
ter, 528,  530-533 ;  in  Shakespeare, 
639,  641-644,  648-66 1, passim. 

Manual*  .  .  .  ad  usum  insigitis  Ecclesia 
Eboratensis,  192. 

Marie  Magdalene.  The  Life  and  Kepent- 
aunce  of,  by  Lewis  Wager,  xxxi,  Ixxxvi. 
Edited  by  Professor  Y.  I.  Carpenter 
(Univ.  Chicago  Press). 

Marlowe,  Christopher,  Iviii,  xc  ;  and 
Peele,  337,  339;  and  Greene,  388, 
389,  403-405,414,423;  and  Porter, 
523  ;  and  Shakespeare,  652. 

Marprelate  Controversy,  the,  Lyly's  part 
in,  265. 

Marriage  of  Witte  and  Science,  The,  see 
under  Wit  Plays. 

Marston,  John,  and  Henry  Porter,  520. 

Martin  Marprelate,  the  Epistle  And  Epit- 
ome assign  G.  G.  N.  to  Bridges,  200. 

Martine  Marsixtus,  by  R.  W.,  and 
Greene,  401,  404. 

Martin's  Month's  MinJe  (Xashe  ?), 
cited,  353. 

Marvels,  or  miracles  of  the  saints,  xiv, 
xv,  xvi,  xviii,  xx,  xxx,  xxxvii-xlvi,  Ixii, 
Ixix,  Ixxxvi. 

Mary  Afagdalene,  the  Digby  play  of, 
and  the  importance  of  the  character 
in  romantic  comedy,  xxx,  xxxi,  xxxvii, 
xlviii,  1,  li,  Iviii. 

Mary,  the  Virgin,  her  importance  as  a 
romantic  character,  xxix,  xxx. 

Maskell,  Monnmenta  l\itualia,  144,  192. 

Masques,  xl,  Ixxxix  ;  by  Udall,  93,  94  ; 
by  I.yly,  267,  272  ;  by  Shakespeare, 
650,  651,  660,  66 1. 


'    Measure  for    Measure,    Shakespeare's, 

657. 
Medwall,   H.,  his    Goodly   Interlude   of 

Nature,  Ix. 

Menaphon,  by  Greene  ;  his  letter  pre- 
fixed ;  and  Nashe's  J^reface,  337, 

389,411,412,423,424. 
Merchant  of  Venice,  The,  Shakespeare's, 

xt;.  3°5>  534,  583,  651,  652. 
Meredith,    Mr.    George,    on   woman    in 

comedy,  Ixi  ;  on  the  comic  spirit,  637. 
Meres,  Francis,  his  Palladis   Tamia,  on 

Peele,  337  ;    on   Greene  and  Nashe, 

422;   on  Porter,  517,  528. 
Merlin,  similarities  to  the  character  of, 

in  Old  Wires'  Tale,  345,  356. 
Merrie  conceited  Jests   of  George  Peele, 

337- 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  The,  Shake- 
speare's, 533,  645,  652,  654. 

Meyer,  K.,  Geschichte  d.  hamlnirgischen 
Schul-und-U ntcr richtswesens  im  Mit- 
telalter,  xxi. 

Middleton,  Thomas,  his  Game  of  Chess, 
275  ;  his  Trick  to  (  \itc/i  the  Old  One, 
cited,  359. 

Midsummer  A'ig/tfs  Dream,  A,  Shake- 
speare's, 275,  389,  415.427.  533.  534, 
648,  651. 

'  Miles  Gloriosus,'  the,  of  Plautus,  in  Eng- 
lish literature,  Ixxiv,  98,  189,  190. 

Milton,  John,  his  Com  us  compared  with 
the  Old  Wives'  Tale,  347. 

Miracle  plays,  Biblical  and  legendary, 
xiv-xvi,  xviii-xx  ;  the  cycles  in  their 
relation  to  English  comedy,  xxi— xxxi  ; 
historical  order  of  comic  passages  in 
the  cycles,  sequence  of  ivsthetic  val- 
ues, xxiv  ei  st't/.:  dramatic  value  of, 
xxxi-xxxvii  ;  relation  to  the  stage,  and 
the  theory  of  the  English  miracles, 
xxxii,  xxxiv  ;  national  note  in,  xxxvi; 
how  they  fall  short  of  artistic  comedy, 
xxxvii  ;  nature  of  legendary,  xxxviii  ; 
relation  to  moral  and  interlude,  Iv. 


676 


Index 


Mirth  plays,  Ixxi,  Ixxii. 

Misogonus,  by  Thomas  Richardes  (?), 
Ixxviii,  Ixxxi-lxxxiii,  191. 

Missa  Gulcf,  in  Halliwell  and  Wright's 
KeliquitE  Antique,  191. 

Mock  Requiem,  the,  in  Roister  Doister, 
sources,  etc.,  191-192. 

Monachopornoniachia,  Ixxi. 

Mone,  F.  J.,  Shauspiele  des  Mittelalters, 
190. 

Monox,  Will,  and  Greene,  423. 

Montemayor,  Jorge  de,  his  pastoral  of 
Diana  Enamorada  and  7'wo  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,  650. 

Moral,  the,  or  moral  play,  not  properly 
called  morality,  Iv,  note  2  ;  collective, 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  xxxiv  ;  na- 
ture of  the  moral,  xlix;  the  vicein,xlvi, 
xlviii-liv  ;  relation  of  moral,  mira- 
cle, and  interlude,  liv-lvii  ;  the  older 
morals  in  their  relation  to  comedy, 
Ivii-lxii  ;  their  dramatic  contribution, 
Ixii-lxiv  ;  school  interlude  and  con- 
troversial moral,  Ixix-lxxvii  ;  French 
moralities,  Ixxii  ;  fusion  plays,  Ixxvii, 
Ixxviii  ;  moral  interlude,  Ixxx  ;  sur- 
vival of  rudimentary,  decadent,  func- 
tionless,  Ixxxv,  Ixxxvi  ;  variations  of, 
and  moral  tragedies,  Ixxxvi  ;  pleasant 
and  stately,  Ixxxviii  ;  other  mention, 
4>  5.  99,  103,  267,  407. 

Morando,  Greene's,  397. 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  Ixi,  Ixxvii  ;  and  I  ley- 
wood,  5,  89. 

Morley,  Professor  Henry,  his  English 
Writers,  Hi. 

Morris-dance,  xl. 

Mortificacio,   The,  York  play  of,  xxv. 

Morton,  Cardinal,  5. 

Mother  Bombie,  l>y  I.yly,  266,  268,  272, 

273,  338. 
Mourning  Garment,  The,  by  Greene,  398, 

406,  412,  416. 
Movement,   the,    in    comedy,    compared 

with  that  of  tra»i-dy,  l\iii. 


Muceiforus,  by  Lodge  (?),  420,  499. 
Mufh  Ado  about  Nothing,  Shakespeare's, 

646,  654. 
Mummings,  xl. 
Munday,  Anthony,  his  Two  Italian  Gen- 

tlemen,\xxxn\i  ;  and  Lyly,  266  ;  and 

Porter,  518,  524. 
Mundus  et  Infans,  Iviii. 
Mydas,  by  Lyly,  265,  267,  268,  272. 
Myroure   of  oure   I.adye,  definition    of 

'  Tytyvyllus,'  190. 
Mysteries,  Dodsley's  imported  name  for 

miracles,    xxii  ;      Corpus    of   French, 

xxxiv. 
Myth,    classical,    as    material    for    plays, 

Ixxxiv,   Ixxxvii,    Ixxxviii,   Ixxxix,   xcvi, 

268,  657,  658,  660. 

NAOGEORGOS  (Kirchmayer),  his  Pamma- 
chius,  Ixx. 

Narcissus,  a  play,  268. 

Xarrenschiff,  Locher's  translation,  Ix. 

Nash's  History  of  Worcestershire,  65. 

Xashe,  Thomas,  on  Gascoigne,  Ixxxv  ; 
his  Jack  Wilton,  266  ;  his  four  I  et- 
ters  Confuted,  351  ;  on  Peele  in  his 
letter  prefixed  to  Greene's  Menaphon, 
337  ;  on  Kyd,  410  ;  on  Greene  in 
Hai'e  ivith  You  to  Saffron  Wai- 
den,  337,  419  ;  on  the  Harveys  in 
Strange  Newcs,  423  ;  also,  373  ;  that 
he  was  "young  Juvenal,"  422;  his 
relations  with  Greene  proved  by  ref- 
erence to  Meres,  Chettle,  Dekker,  his 
own  Strange  .Vetoes,  Anatomie  of  Ab- 
surditic,  Astrological  Prognostication, 
Summer's  Last  I  Till,  217,  .122-424; 
his  ('//r/.c/V'jr  7'<w;v.r,  42)  ;  his  rela- 
tions with  the  '  Groatsworth '  group 
of  poets,  403,  424  ;  with  Porter  (?), 

5T5,  5'7- 

Nativity,  plays  of  the,  xxii,  xxxiv. 
Nature,     The     Goodly    Inlerlude  of,    by 

Medwall,    xlviii,    1,    Ivi,    lix-lx,    Ixxi, 

Ixxvi. 


Index 


677 


Never  too  faff,  by  Greene,  397,  398,  410. 
A'fw  English   Dictionarv,    The,  by   Dr. 

Murray,  Mr.  liradley  et  <;/.,  frequent 

references  in  notes  to  plays  here  pre- 
sented. 
Newcastle  Plays,  the  sensational  in  The, 

xxiii,  xxix. 
Newe    Custom e,   a   controversial   moral, 

Ixxxvi. 
tVice    Wanton,    the    interluile   of,  Ixxii, 

Ixxiv. 
Nicholas,  his  Proceedings  and  Ordinances 

of  the  Privy  Council,  91. 
Nichols,     John,      The     Progresses     and 

Public  Processions  of  Queen   Eliza- 
beth, 93. 
Nicholson,  Dr.  Brinsley,  on   Old  Wives' 

Tale,  360,  370. 
Nietzsche,    F,   his    Ceburt  d.   Tragodie, 

and  Frohliche  Wissenschaft,  338. 
Nigromansir,  The,  by  Skelton,  xlvii,  xlix, 

li,  Iviii,  lix. 
Noah,  the  York  Play  of,  xxv,  Ixxxi  ;   the 

Waketield  play  of,  xxvii,  xxviii. 
North,    Sir   Thomas,    his   translation    of 

Plutarch's  Lives,  285,   290,  291,  292 

et  seq. 

Notes  and  Queries,  xliii. 
Novelle,  adaptation   of  them  to   drama, 

ix,  Ivii. 
N-town,    The,  or  so-called   Coventry  or 

Hegge   Plays,  xxiii,  xxiv,   xxix,  xxxiv, 

xxxvii,  xlviii,  1,  Iviii. 

OFFICITM  LUSORUM,  191. 

Old  Waives1  Tale,  The,  by  George  Peele, 
edited  with  critical  essay  and  notes 
by  Professor  Gummcre,  333-382  ;  also 
Appendix  on  Sources  of  Characters, 
and  the  Harvesters'  Sung,  by  the 
same,  382-384.  Other  mention,  409, 
427. 

Orlando  Fitrioso,  The,  by  Ariosto,  346  ; 
used  by  Pcele  in  O.  'w.  T.,  383  ;  by 
Greene,  409. 


Orlando    Furioso,    The   Historic  of,  by 

Greene,  342,  383,  389,  408-411,  414, 

415,  417,  418. 
Osborn,  in    Teufelslitteratur,  names  of 

the  Devil,  190. 
Ovid,  Lyly's  indebtedness  to,  272,  281, 

298,  etc. 
'  Owleglasse,1  mentioned  in  7'wo  Angry 

Women,  613. 

PAI.AMON  AND  ARCITE,  by  Richard  Ed- 
wardes,  Ixxxiv. 

Palladis  Tamia,  528,  and  see  under 
Meres. 

Palsgrave,  John,  his  edition  of  the  Aco- 
lastus,  Ixx,  Ixxii,  Ixxxii  ;  I.esclarcisse- 
inent  de  la  I  angne  Francoyse,  lou, 
194,  and  fre<juently  in  notes  to  Roister. 

Pammachius,  by  Naogeorgos,  translated 
by  liale,  Ixx,  Ixxv. 

Pamphilns,  the  comedy  of,  xvii. 

'  Pancaste,'  the  real  name  of  '  Campaspe,' 

329- 
Parasite,    the    domestic,    xvii,    Ixxxii,    in 

ancient  and  modern  comedy,  100,  101. 
Pardoner,  The,  and  the  Frere,  interlude 

assigned  to  Heywood,  Ixvii,  Ixix,  Ixxxi, 

10,  15. 
Pardonnenr,  etc.,  Farce  nonvelle  d'un, 

'5- 

Paris,  Matthew  of,  his  f.ires  of  the  Abbots 
of  St.  A/bans,  xiv. 

Parker,  Archbishop,  on  Still,  201. 

Parker  Society  Publications,  on  exor- 
cism, 193. 

Parodies,  religious,  xiv-xx  ;  of  church  ser- 
vices, 191,  192. 

Parsones,  Thomas,  and  Porter,  516. 

Passion,  mystery  play  by  A.  Greban,  xxxvi. 

Pastoral  scenes  and  masques,  272,  391. 

/'ii/t-rnoster  Play,  ///<•,  xxxiv,  1. 

'  Pathelin,'  Ixvi. 

Patient  Grissel,  191. 

Paul,  St.,  The  Conversion  of,  in  the  Digby 
collection,  xxx,  xxxvii. 


678 


Index 


Peele,  George,  and  Lyly,  Ixxxvii,  xc,  275  ; 
Critical  Essay  on,  with  edition  of  his 
Old  Wives'  Tale,  by  Professor  Gum- 
mere,  333-384  ;  Peele's  life,  335  ;  plays 
assigned  to  him,  335  ;  his  place  in  the 
development  of  English  drama,  336  ; 
the  O.  W.  T.  an  innovation,  341  ;  the 
background  of  folk  lore  in  O.  W.  T., 
345;  literary  estimate  of,  346  ;  sources, 
title,  text  of,  347,  382  ;  the  Harvesters' 
song  in,  383  ;  his  Hunting  of  Cupid, 

423- 
Peile,  Dr.,  and  Gammer  Gurtons  ATedle, 

198. 
Pembroke,  the  Earl  of,  his  players,  and 

Porter,  520. 
Penner,  E.,  his  Metrische  Untersuchungen 

zu  Peele,  348. 

Percy,  Dr.,  on  Hyckcscorner,  Ix. 
Pericles,    probably    Shakespeare's,     191, 

659,  660. 
Fernet  qui  va  au  vin,  tresbonne  et  fort 

ioyettse,  Parse  nouuelle  de,  Ixv,  Ixvi,  12; 

15- 

Perymedes,  by  Greene,  403,  406,  409. 
Petit  de  Julleville,  La  Comi'die  en  France 

au  moyen  age,  xxi,  Ixvi. 
Petrarch,  his  Philologia,  Ixvii. 
Pettie,    George,    his    Petite    Pallace    of 

Pettie  His  Pleasure,  267. 
Philip  II,  and  Mydas,  268. 
Phillips,   Edward,   his    Theatrum    Poeta- 

rum  on  Faire  Em»i,  418. 
Philogenia,  an  Italian  play,  Ixix. 
Piccolomini,  his  Crisis,  Ixvii. 
1  Pickelhering,'  xlv. 
Piers  Wowinan,  xl,  108,  109,  191,  etc. 
Pikerynge,   John,   his    Interlude  of  Vice 

concerning     Horestes,     Ixxv,     Ixxxiii, 

Ixxxvii. 
Pilkington,     Exposition     upon     slggeus, 

191. 
/'inner  of  Wakefield,  The,  see  George-a- 

Grcene. 
Planetomachia,  by  Greene,  397,  398. 


Plautus,  xvi,  Ixv,  Ixvii,  Ixviii,  Ixxii,  Ixxix, 
Ixxxii,  Ixxxvi  ;  Udall  and,  99;  Lyly 
and,  268  ;  Shakespeare  and,  650  ;  also 
frequent  references  in  notes  to  Roister 
Doister, 

Play  of  Love,  The,  see  John  Heynvood. 

Play  of  the  Sacrament,  The,  xxxix. 

Play  of  the  Wether,  see  John  Heywood. 

Play  within  the  play,  the,  in  Peele,  etc., 
343,  in  Greene,  426. 

Players,  see  under  Acting. 

Pliny,  Lyly's  indebtedness  to,  267,  269 ; 
his  History  of  World,  279 ;  also  fre- 
quently in  notes  to  Campaspe. 

Plutarch  on  Education,  and  on  Exile  used 
by  Lyly,  267 ;  also  his  Life  of  Alex- 
ander, 269,  283  ;  and  elsewhere  in  the 
notes  to  Lyly's  Alexander  and  Cam- 
paspe. 

Poliscene,  an  Italian  play,  Ixix. 

Politics,  in  Lyly's  allegories,  275. 

Pollard,  Mr.  A.  \V.,  his  edition  of  the 
Toivneley  Plavs,  xxiii,  xxvi ;  on  the 
Towneley  (Wakelield)  master,  xxviii ; 
his  English  Miracle  Plays,  xlix,  li, 
Ixvi;  A  Critical  Essay  on  John  Hey- 
wood, with  editions  of  his  Play  of  the 
Wether  and  Johan,  1-86. 

Polyhymnia,  by  Peele,  336. 

Polytypic  plays,  Ivii,  Ixxii,  Ixxvii-lxxxv. 

Popular  festival  plays,  xxxix-xlvi. 

Porter,  Henry,  the  dramatist,  Ixxxviii ; 
Critical  Essay  on  his  life  and  dramatic 
work,  with  an  edition  of  his  Two 
Angry  Women,  by  Professor  Gayley, 
5 ! 3-633  ;  facts  °f  Porter's  life,  515  ; 
earlynotices,5i7;  conjectural  identity, 
518;  dramatic  career,  520;  his  asso- 
ciates, 522-524  ;  date  of  his  extant 
play,  525  ;  its  dramatic  qualities  and 
construction,  528  ;  portrayal  of  char- 
acter, 530  ;  place  in  the  history  of 
comedy,  533  ;  previous  editions  and 
the  present  text,  535. 

Porter,  Henry,  the  musical  composer,  518. 


Index 


679 


Porter,  Walter,  518. 

Prayer,  the,  at  the  end  of  early  plays, 
184;  and  see  close  of  other  come- 
dies in  this  volume. 

Preston,  Thomas,  his  Cambists,  King  of 
Percia,  Ixxxvi. 

Pride  of  Life,  The,  a  moral,  liii,  Ivi,  Iviii. 

'  Priest  of  the  Sun,  The,'  in  Greene  and 
ledge's  Looking-  Gliisse,  406. 

Processus  Crucis,  story  about  a,  by  Bebel, 
xxxvi. 

Prodigal  Son  Plays,  Ixxii-lxxiv,  Ixxx.lxxxii, 
Ixxxiii. 

Prose,  in  Medwall's  Nature.  Ix  ;  in  the 
Supposes,  Ixxxv  ;  in  plays  of  Lyly,  271, 
274  ;  of  Greene,  417. 

Prouerbes  in  the  Englishe  Tonge,  Dia- 
logue Conteyneng  the  Number  of  the 
Effectuall,  3. 

Publishers:  of  Heywood's  plays,  5,  8,  10, 
13,  1 6,  17,  63;  of  Roister  Doister, 
97,  104;  of  Gammer  Gurton,  197; 
of  Lyly's  plays,  276  ;  of  Peele's  Old 
Wives'1  Tale,  348  ;  of  Greene's  plays, 
403,  404,  405,  408,  411,  415,  418,  420, 
430  ;  of  Porter's  2  A.  W.  A.,  534,  535. 

Puttenham,  George,  his  Arte  of  English 
Poesie,  Ixxxiii. 

'  Pyrgopolinices '  in  Plautus,  102. 

QrAORlo,  F.  S.,  Delia  Storia  e  delta  Ra- 

gione  d'ogni  Poesia,  xviii,  Ixvii. 
Queen's  players  (Kli/.abeth's,  1583-1592), 

Greene's  relations  with  the,  408,  409, 

411,413,  417.418. 
Quero/ns,  a  Latin  play,  xvii. 
Quintus  FaHus,  a  play,  268. 
Quip  for   an    t'pstart    Courtier,    .-I,    by 

Greene,  371,  398,  423. 

RADCI.IKFK,  Ralph,  his  Griseh/tznA  other 

plays,  Ixxi. 

Ram  Alley,  by  Harry,  352. 
Kankins,  William,  a  writer  for  Hcnslowe 

in  Purler's  time  ;   author  of  Mulmu- 


fius  Dun-uallo-u  ;  joint  author  of  plays 
with  Hathaway,  524. 

Rare  Triumphs  of  Iwc  and  Fortune, 
The,  an  early  romantic  comedy, 
Ixxxviii ;  the  induction  in,  343  ;  '  Len- 
tulo '  in,  430. 

Rastell,  John,  reputed  author  of  A  New 
Interlude  and  Mery  of  the  Nature  of 
the  Four  Elements,  Ixi,  Ixxi ;  publisher 
and  perhaps  author  of  Calisto  and 
Melibeea,  Ixviii ;  relations  with  John 
I  ley  wood,  5,  8. 

Rastell,  William,  printer  of  four  of  Hey- 
wood's plays,  5,  6,  8,  10,  86. 

Ray,  J.,  English  Proverbs,  108,  etc.,  194, 

569,  595- 

R.  B.  (Richard  Bower?),  Mr.  Fleay's 
conjecture  concerning,  336. 

Realism  in  comedy :  in  Bodel's  St.  Nich- 
olas, xvi  ;  in  late  Latin  comedies, 
xviii  ;  in  religious  parodies,  xx  ;  in  the 
miracle  cyles,  xxiv-xxx,  xxxv-xxxvi ; 
in  the  later  '  marvels,'  xxxix  ;  in  pop- 
ular festival  plays,  xli-xlvi ;  of  the 
miracle  Devil,  xlvi  et  seq.;  of  the 
Vice,  xlix  et  seq.;  in  the  older  moral 
plays,  Iviii-lxii,  Ixiii  ;  in  the  French 
and  English  farce,  etc.,  Ixiv-lxvi ; 
in  school  plays,  continental  and  Eng- 
lish, Ixix-lxxvii  ;  in  fusion  plays,  Ixxvii 
et  seq.;  in  survivals  of  the  moral, 
Ixxxvi  ;  in  the  Rare  Triumphs 
and  in  Wilson's  '  Stately  Morals,' 
Ixxxviii-xc  ;  comedy  realistic  or  satir- 
ical, xci.  In  Heywood,  4  et  seq. ;  in 
Udall,  99,  103  ;  in  Stevenson,  202- 
204  ;  in  Lyly,  275  ;  in  Peele,  342- 
344;  in  Greene,  388,  391-394.  4>9. 
428-430  ;  in  Porter,  528-533  ;  in 
Shakespeare,  644,  645,  648,  653 
et  seq. 

Rebelles,  by  Macropedius,  Ixx,  Ixxiv. 

Red  Ettin,  The,  a  fairy  tale  referred  to 
in  comment  on  O.  II'.  /'.,  345,  362. 

Rcdford's  Wit  and  Science,  Ixix,  Ixxii. 


68o 


Index 


Reed,  Isaac,  his  edition  of  Baker's  Dic- 

tionary  of   the    Stage,    on    Gammer 

Gurton,  20  1. 

Regularis   Concordia  Monachorum,  xiii. 
Reinhardstoettner,  Karl  von,  on  Plautus, 

117,  190. 
ReliquiiE    Antiques,    by    Halliwell    and 

Wright,  xxxvi,  191. 
Renaissance,    the,    effect    upon    drama, 

Ixiv  ;   upon  Greene,  390. 
Repentance  of  Robert  Greene,  The,  398, 

418. 
Respublica,  a    controversial    moral,  xlix, 

Ixxii,  Ixxiv,  Ixxvi,  Ixxvii. 
Resurrection,   The,  miracle  plays  of,  xiv, 

xix,  xxii. 
Returne  from  Pernassus,  The,  on  rivalry 

of  Jonson  and  Shakespeare,  638. 
Reuter,    Kilian,   his   Latin   play   of    St. 

Dorothea,  Ixx. 
Revels  at    Court,  Accounts  of  the,  270  ; 

Udall  and  the  Revels,  93. 
Rhetorical  pause,  the,  methods  of  repre- 

senting it    in    dramatic  blank  verse, 


Ribbeck,  Otto,  his  Alazon,  189. 
Richardes,  Thomas,   perhaps  author  of 

Misogonus,  Ixxxi. 
Ritson's  Songs,  191. 
Ritter,  O.,  on  Greene's  Frier  Bacon,  413, 

426. 
Rituale  Romanum,  the,  and  Udall's  par- 

ody of,  192. 
Ritwyse,  John,  author  of  a  satiric  inter- 

lude, Ixxi. 
Robert  of  Gloucester,  Robert  of  Brunne, 

their  use  of  the  septenarius,  189. 
Robin  et  Marion,  by  Adam  de  la  Halle, 

xli. 
Robin  Hood  plays,  xxxviii,  xl  ;    ref.,  418  ; 

The  I.ytell  Geste  of,  130. 
Roister  Doister,  by  Udall,  lix,  Ixxii,  Ixxvii, 

Ixxviii,  Ixxix,  Ixxx,  Ixxxii,  xcii.     Edition 

with  Critical  Essay  on  the  life  of  the 

author,  the  text,  date,  plot,  characters 


of  the  play,  with  notes  and  appendix 
on  various  matters,  by  Professor 
Fliigel,  87-194;  other  mention,  202, 
203,  204,  338. 

Rojas,  Fernando  de  (and  Cota),  their 
Calisto  and  Melibosa,  Ixviii. 

Rolls  Series,  xix. 

Romantic,  the,  in  saints'  plays,  xiv-xvi ; 
in  Latin  interludes  and  elegiac  com- 
edy, xvii,  xviii ;  in  miracle  cycles, 
xxiv,  xxix-xxx  ;  in  various  later  '  mar- 
vels," xxxvii,  xxxviii  ;  in  the  older 
moral  plays,  Iviii-lix  ;  foreign  influ- 
ence and  native  romance,  Ixv,  Ixvii- 
Ixix  ;  in  the  wit  plays,  Ixxiii ;  in  the 
plays  of  prodigals,  Ixxiv-lxxv ;  in 
fusion  plays,  Ixxvii  et  seq. ;  especially 
in  Damon  and  The  Supposes,  Ixxxiv- 
Ixxxv  ;  the  movement  toward  roman- 
tic comedy,  Ixxxvii ;  nature,  subjects, 
and  kinds  of  romantic  comedy,  Ixxxvii, 
Ixxxviii,  xci ;  in  Heywood,  Ixix,  6  ;  in 
Lyly,  271-275  ;  in  Peele,  338,  341- 
347  ;  in  Greene,  390,  427  ;  in  Greene 
and  Shakespeare,  643,  645,  647  et  seq. 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  Shakespeare's,  533, 
590,  603,  652. 

Rosalynde,  EupJiues1  Golden  Legacie,  by 
Thomas  Lodge,  645. 

Rose  Theatre,  the,  and  Greene,  408, 411; 
and  Porter,  519,  520,  521. 

Ross,  Mr.  C.  H.,  on  the  authorship  of 
Gammer  Gurton,  202. 

Rowley,  Samuel,  intimacy  of  Henry 
Porter  with,  524. 

Royal  entries,  their  dramatic  significance, 
xl. 

Roval  F.xchange,  by  Greene,  398. 

Rutebeuf,  his  play  of  Theophilus,  xvi. 

R.  W.,  his  Marline  M^arsixtus,  424. 

Rye's  East  Anglian  Glossary,  211. 

SACRAMENT  plays,  xxxvii,  xxxix. 
Saints'  plays,  the  early,  their  nature  and 
relation  to  comedy,  xiv-xxi  ;  the  later, 


Index 


68 1 


their  contribution  to  drama,  xxvii  ;  a 
list  of,  and  their  connection  with  ro- 
mantic plays,  xxxviii  ;  secularized  as 
in  St.  George,  xli-xlv  ;  mentioned, 
Ixii,  Ixxxiv,  Ixxxviii.  The  Play  or 
Pageant  of  St.  Anne,  xv  ;  St.  Botulf, 
xv,  xxxviii ;  St.  Christian,  St.  Chris- 
tina, Sts.  Crispin  and  Crispinian, 
xxxviii  ;  St.  Dorothea,  Ixviii ;  St.  Ed- 
ward and  St.  Fabyan,  xxxviii  ;  St. 
George,  xv,  xxxviii,  xli  ;  St.  Katharine, 
xiv,  xv,  xxxviii ;  St.  Laurence,  xxxviii  ; 
St.  Mary  Magdalene,  xxx,  xxxvii, 
Ixxxvi ;  St.  Nicholas,  xv,  xvi ;  St. 
Olave,  xxxviii  ;  St.  Paul,  xxx,  xxxvii, 
1 ;  St.  Sebastian,  xxxviii ;  St.  Susanna, 
xv,  xxxviii. 

St.  Andrew's  Day,  note  to  mention  in 
O.  W.  T.,  358. 

St.  Augustine,  against  the  mi  mi,  etc.,  xix. 

St.  Dyryk,  perhaps  Theodoric,  69. 

St.  James  the  More,  Life  of,  xliv. 

St.  Jerome,  his  attitude  toward  Plautus 
and  Terence,  xvii ;  and  legendary 
miracles,  xxxviii; 

St.  John's,  Beverley,  Resurrection  play 
at,  xiii,  xx. 

St.  Luke's  Day,  mentioned  in  O.  IV.  T., 
358. 

St.  Modwena,  mentioned  in  Johan,  82. 

St.  Sithe  (?),  213. 

Satire,  medieval  in  drama,  xvii ;  in  re- 
ligious parodies,  xx  ;  in  the  miracles, 
xxiv,  xxviii-xxix,  xxxvi ;  the  Devil  not 
primarily  satirical,  xlvi,  xlviii ;  the 
Vice  in  satirical  literature,  li-liv  ;  in 
the  interlude,  Ivi,  Ixv,  Ixx,  Ixxvi,  Ixxvii, 
Ixxxiii,  Ixxxvi,  xci  ;  in  Heywood,  \  et 
seij.  See  also  articles  on  Udall,  I-yly 
(265,  267),  Peele,  Greene,  Shake- 
speare. 

Scene,  the,  beside  a  scene,  424. 

Schilling,  Professor  F.  E.,  his  English 
Chronicle  I'lays,  Ixxvi  ;  his  edition  of 
Tom  Tyler,  Ixxxi. 


Schick,  Professor,  his  edition  of  Kyd's 
Spanish  Tragedy,  410 ;  on  Faire 
Emm,  41 1. 

Schipper,  Professor,  his  Neuenglische  Met- 
rik,  applied  to  Greene's  verses,  508- 

5°9- 

School  plays,  xiv,  Ixv,  Ixix-lxxv  ;  Eng- 
lish for  Latin,  90,  98,  197-198,  267, 
270. 

Schwab,  Das  Schauspiel  im  Schauspiel, 

343- 

Scillaes  Metamorphosis,  by  Lodge,  406. 

Scipio  Africanus,  the  play  of,  268. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  account  of  Shetland 
Sword  Dance  in  The  Pirate,  xliii, 
xiv  ;  on  "  Brotherhood  in  Arms,"  366. 

Second  and  Third  Blast  of  Retrait  from 
Plaies  and  Theaters,  Henry  Den- 
ham's,  on  '  strange  '  comedies,  342. 

Second  Trial,  The,  the  York  play  of,  xxv. 

Secular  plays,  the  early,  and  their  con- 
tribution to  comedy,  xx-xxi,  xxxvii- 
xlvi ;  see  also  Morals,  Farce,  Inter- 
ludes, and  Romantic  Comedy. 

Secunda  Pastorum,  the  Second  Shep- 
herds' Pageant  of  the  Wakefield 
cycle,  xxvii,  xxviii,  xxxii,  Ixix,  3,  202, 

533- 

Selimus,  The  First  Part  of  the  Tragical 
Raigne  of,  not  by  Greene,  418,  420, 
.  482,483- 

Senarius,  'Jlic,  in  Greene,  509;  and  the 
Septenarius  in  Udall,  189. 

Seneca,  Ixxxv,  275. 

Sequentia  falsi  F.vangelii  Secundum 
Ma  ream,  in  Du  Meril,  191. 

Seven  Deadly  Sins,  the,  xxx,  xxxi,  xlix,  1, 
lii,  liv. 

Shakespeare,  William,  the  Fool  in  his 
plays,  lii,  Ixxxiii  ;  incidental  mention, 
Ixxxv,  191  et  passim;  relation  t<> 
Lyly's  work,  271,  275,  287,  322  ;  to 
Peek's,  336,  343,  345  ;  to  Greene's, 
387-389.  393-394.  401-402,  4'5  ;  re' 
semblances  to,  in  Porter,  517;  Shake- 


682 


Index 


speare  an  a  Comic  Dramatist,  a 
monograph  by  Professor  Dowden, 
635-661;  the  essentials  of  Shake- 
spearian comedy,  637  ;  tragedy  com- 
pared with  comedy,  639 ;  comedy, 
the  characters  in,  and  their  relation 
to  incident,  etc.,  640-660  ;  punish- 
ment and  rewards  in  Shakespeare's 
comedy,  641-642 ;  compared  with 
Jonson's  comedy,  641  ;  complication 
and  resolution,  love,  laughter,  satire, 
642-643;  intrigue  and  treatment  of 
materials,  644  ;  euphuism,  646  ;  his 
development  as  a  comic  dramatist, 
648  et  seq. ;  transformation  plays, 
648  ;  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  649  ;  7'he 
Comedy  of  Errors,  650  ;  The  7'zvo 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  650  ;  A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  651  ;  The 
Merchant  of  Venice,  652;  The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew,  653;  the  Falstaff 
plays,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, King  Henry  V,  653-654  ;  Much 
Ado  about  Nothing,  654 ;  Twelfth 
Night,  655  ;  Airs  Well  that  Ends  ' 
Well,  656  ;  Measure  for  Measure, 
657  ;  Troilus  and  Cressida,  657  ;  his 
relation  to  Chapman,  Dekker,  Mars- 
ton,  Jonson,  Southampton,  656-657; 
the  period  of  tragedy,  657-658; 
Pericles,  Cymbeline,  The  Winter's 
Tale,  The  Tempest,  The  Two  Noble 
Kinsmen,  659-661. 

Shaw,  Robert,  a  player  acquaintance  of 
Henry  Porter,  516,  524. 

Shearmen  and  Taylors'  Pageant,  the 
Coventry  Guild  play  of  the,  xxiii. 

Shepherd's  /Vuvs,  7'he,  of  York,  xxv  ;  of 
Wakefield,  xxvii,  xxviii,  Ixxxi ;  and 
see  Secunda  /\istorn»i. 

Sherwood,  Thomas,  his  Anglais  et  I-rau- 
fds  Dictionaire,  added  to  Cotgrave, 
1 1 8,  194,  etc. 

Shipwright?  Play,  The,  of  Newcastle, 
xlviii,  lix. 


Short    Discourse    of    my    Lifet    A,    by 

Greene,  397. 
Shows,  dumb,  Ixxxix. 
'Shrew'  plays,  Ixxxi. 
Shrewsbury,  religious  play  at,  xiii. 
Sidney,    Sir    Philip,    337 ;    his    Arcadia, 

389- 
Simpson,  R.,  his  School  of  Shakespeare, 

404,  422. 
Singer,  John,  one  of  the  Admiral's  men 

in  Porter's  time. 
Sir  Armadace,    the   "  Thankful   Dead  " 

in,  and  O.  W.  T.,  345. 
Sir  Clyomon  and  Sir  Clamydes,  Ixxxviii, 

335.  341,  342. 
Sir  John   Oldcastell,  by  A.  Munday  and 

others,  523. 
Six  Hundred  Epigrams,  by  John  Hey- 

wood,  3. 
Skeat,  Professor  W.  W.,  xiii,   no,   190, 

374- 

Skelton,  John,  contribution  to  Fool- 
literature,  lii  ;  his  Magnyfycence, 
Iviii,  189  ;  his  Nigromansir,  xlviii,  1, 
Iviii ;  his  Phyllyp  Spar  owe,  192. 

Slater,  Martin,  an  associate  of  Henry 
Porter,  521. 

Smeken,  his  Sacrament  Play,  xxxix. 

Smith,  Miss  Lucy  Toulmin,  her  edition 
of  the  York  Inlays,  xxiii,  xxvi. 

Smith,  Toulmin,  his  English  Gilds, 
xxxviii. 

Solyman  and  Perseda,  perhaps  by  Kyd, 
the  source  of  Peel's  '  Erestus '  in 
O.  W.  T.,  383. 

Sonnets,  the,  of  Shakespeare,  656,  6158. 

Softies,  the  French,  Ixv-lxvi. 

Southampton,  the  Karl  of,  646. 

South  English  Legendary,  The,  xliv. 

Spanish  Masquerade,  The,  by  Greene, 
398,  409. 

Spanish  Tragedy,  The,  by  Thomas  Kyd, 
410,  427. 

Spencers,  The,  or  Despencers,  a  tragedy 
by  Porter  and  Chettle,  516,  523. 


Index 


683 


Spenser,  Edmund,  Lyly  compared  with, 
274 ;  Harvey's  characterization  of, 
340 ;  his  Tears  of  the  Muses,  405  ; 
other  mention,  421,  426. 

Spenser,  Gabriel,  the  actor,  524. 

Spider  and  the  2- lie,  The,  by  Hey  wood,  3. 

Stanshy,  William,  printer  of  Lyly's  plays 
for  Blount,  269,  276. 

Stanyhurst,  Richard,  his  hexameters  and 
Harvey's  ridiculed  in  O.  IV.  7'.,  373. 

Staple  of  News,  The,  by  Ben  Jonson,  xlv. 

Steevens,  George,  his  letter  on  Comus, 
348. 

Stevenson,  William,  the  author,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Henry  Bradley,  of  Gammer 
Gurtons  Nedle ;  Critical  Essay  on 
his  life  and  the  play  assigned  to  him, 
with  an  edition  of  G.  G.  N.,  notes 
and  an  appendix,  by  Mr.  Bradley, 
205-259.  Other  mention,  lix,  Ixxx, 
Ixxxii. 

Still,  Dr.  John,  not  the  author  of  Gam- 
mer Gurtons  Nedle,  199-202. 

Storojenko,  Professor,  his  Life  of  Greene 
(in  Dr.  Grosart's  edition  of  Greene), 
397,  406,  415. 

Stow,  John,  his  Survey,  xxxviii ;  on 
mummings,  xl. 

Strange,  Lord,  his  players  (1589-1593), 
and  Greene's  Orlando,  408  ;  and 
Frier  Bacon,  411. 

Studentes,  see  Stymmelius. 

Stymmelius,  the  author  of  the  play  of 
Studentes,  Ixx,  Ixxiv,  Ixxxii. 

Summer's  Last  IVill  and  Testament,  by 
Thomas  Xashe,  384,  424. 

Supposes,  The,  by  George  Gascoigne, 
Ixxviii,  Ixxxii,  Ixxxv,  Ixxxvii,  Ixxxviii. 

Suppositi,  I,  by  Ariosto,  adapted  by  Gas- 
coigne,  Ixviii. 

Susanna,  a  play  by  Macropedius,  Ixx  ; 
see  also  St.  Susanna. 

Sussex,  the  Earl  of,  his  players  (1591- 
1594),  and  Friar  Bacon,  411;  and 
George-a- Greene,  413. 


Swoboda,  Dr.,  his  John  Heytoood  ali 
Dramatiker,  12. 

Sword  Plays,  xliii,  xlv. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  his  Predecessors  of  Shake- 
speare, Ixviii,  339,  346,  422. 

TAI.KNTS,  TIIK,  the  Wakefield  play  of, 
called  Professus  Talentorum,  xxviii. 

Tamburlaine  the  Great,  by  Marlowe, 
and  Greene's  Alphonsus,  403 ;  and 
the  Looking-  Glass,  406  ;  and  Orlando, 
410;  and  George-a- Greene,  418. 

Taming  of  a  Shre~<.v,  The,  example  of  a 
play  within  a  play,  343. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  The,  Shake- 
speare's, Ixxxv,  415,  652. 

Tempest,  The,  Shakespeare's,  Ixxxix,  644, 
659,  660. 

Ten  Brink,  Professor  B.,  on  the  priority 
of  legend  to  Scripture  in  English 
comedy,  xiii-xiv  ;  on  the  dramatic 
value  of  the  miracle  plays,  xxxii ;  on 
the  characteristics  of  tragedy  and 
comedy,  Ixii. 

Terence,  indebtedness  of  modern  comedy 
to,  xvi,  xvii,  Ixvii,  Ixviii  ;  the  '  Chris- 
tian Terence,'  Ixxii,  Ixxxii  ;  Udall's 
Flowers  from  Terence,  89,  98,  IOI, 
102  ;  notes  to  l\oister  Doister,  288. 

Tertullian,  against  acting,  xix. 

Thankful    Dead,    the,    a  popular    motif, 

345-  3«5- 
That    Will  Be   Shall  Be,   a   play,  521, 

526. 

Thcophilus,  by  Rutebeuf,  xvi. 
Thersvtes,  A  Xewe  Interlude  called,  lix, 

Ixxi,   Ixxii,  Ixxviii  ;   the  authorship  of, 

and    date,    12-14,    loS,     112,    191    <7 

passim. 
Three   Heads  of  the    Well,    The,*  fairy 

tale  referred  to  in  O.  //'.  7'.,  345,  359, 

372. 

Three  Ladies  of  London,  The,  by  R.  W., 
probably  Robert  Wilson,  Ixxxviii,  xc, 
xci. 


684 


Index 


Three     Lordes    and    Three   Ladies    of 

London,    The,  by  the   R.  W.  of  the 

Three  Ladies,  Ixxxviii,  xc,  xci. 
Thrie  Estatis,  A  Satire  of  the,  by  Lynd- 

say,  xlix. 
Thiimmel,  Julius,  on  the  Miles  Gloriosus 

in  Shakespeare,  190. 
Tyde  Taryeth  no  Man,  The,  by  George 

Wapull,  Ixxxvi. 

Timon  of  Athens,  Shakespeare's,  659. 
Tindale,  on  the  use  of  the  holy  candle, 

192;    also  cited,  142,  154. 
'Titiville,'     in     Roister     Doister,     190; 

'Titivillus'  in  Mankynd,  xlvii,  xlviii. 
Titus  Andronicus,  418. 
Tityrus  and  Gallathea,  by  Lyly,  265. 
Tobias,  the  Play  of,  mentioned,  xxxiv. 
Tom    Tyler  and  his    Wife,  the  play  of, 

(edited  by  Professor  Schelling),lxxxi ; 

Kirkman's  edition,  336  ;    mentioned, 

53°,  533- 
Topsell's  History  of  Four-footed  Beastes, 

280,  281. 
Towne,  Thomas,  an  actor  in  the  Admiral's 

company  in  Porter's  time,  524. 
Towneley  Plays,    l^he,  edited   by  A.  W. 

Pollard  and    George    England,  xxiii, 

xxiv,  etc.     See  Wakefield, 
Tragedy,    compared    with    comedy,    xxi, 

xxii,  Ixii,  639. 
Train's  Geschichte  d.Juden  in  Regensburg, 

xxxi. 
Transition,    of  plays   from    miracle    and 

moral  to  comedy,  Ivii,  Ixii,  Ixiv,  Ixix. 
Travesties  of  religious  services,  xx,  xxi. 
Trial  before  Herod,  The,  in  the  York 

plays,  xxv. 
Triall  of   Treasure,    77ie,    Ixxxvi,    121, 

123. 

Trimeter,  in  Roman  comedy,  189. 
Troihis   and   Cressida,  Shakespeare's,  a 

satire     on     Hen     Jonson,    638,    657, 

658. 
Tullie's  Love,  by  Greene,  410;  similarity 

to  Friar  Bacon,  414. 


Turberville,  on  Richard  Edwardes.lxxxiv  ; 
Turberville's  Venerie,  reference  to 
440. 

'  Tutivillus  '  in  the  Wakefield  Judicium, 

xxix,  xlvi,  xlviii. 

Tusser,  Thomas,  his  joo  Pointes,  and 
Udall,  90. 

Twelfth  Night,  Shakespeare's,  352,  646, 
655,  656. 

Two  Angry  Women  of  Abington,  The 
Pleasant  Historie  of  the,  by  Henry 
Porter,  edited  with  critical  essay  and 
notes  by  C.  M.  Gayley,  513-633  ;  The 
Second  Parte  of  the  Two  Angrey 
Wemen,  516,  522,  524,  525. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  77ie,  Shake- 
speare's, 648,  650. 

Two  Italian  Gentlemen,  or  Fidele  and  For  - 
tunio,  by  Anthony  Munday,  Ixxxviii. 

Two  Mery  Wemen  of  Abenton,  The,  by 
Porter,  516,  523,  535. 

Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  The,  by  Shake- 
speare and  Fletcher,  660. 

UDALL,  Nicholas,  mention  of  his  Roister 
Doister,  lix  et  passim ;  his  Flowers 
from  Terence,  Ixxi,  89  ;  text  of  his 
Roister  Doister,  edited  with  critical 
essay,  notes,  and  appendix,  by  Pro- 
fessor Fliigel,  87-194  ;  life  of  Udall, 
89  ;  date  of  the  play,  95  ;  date  of  the 
early  edition,  97;  place  of  R.  D.  in 
English  literature,  98  ;  the  plot  and 
characters,  100  ;  the  present  text  and 
earlier  reprints,  104;  his  Apophthegms, 
142,  etc.;  Appendix,  188-194;  the 
metre  of  R.  D.,  189  ;  the  figure  of  the 
Miles  Gloriosus  in  English  literature, 
189;  'Titiville,'  190;  'Mumble- 
crust'  and  the  maids,  191  ;  the  mock 
requiem  and  other  parodies,  191  ; 
Roister  as  'Vagrant,'  192;  the 
prayer  and  ' song  '  at  the  end,  193  ; 
works  quoted  in  the  notes,  194. 

Ugolino,  his  Philogenia,  Ixvii. 


Index 


685 


Ulrici,  H.,  on  Greene,  408. 
Usury  statutes  of  Henry  VIII  and  Ed- 
ward VI,  96. 

VALENTINE  AND  ORSON,  418,  426. 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  John,  his  character  of 
'Hoyden,'  531. 

Vergerio,  his  Paulus,  Ixvii. 

Versification,  alleged  irregularities  in  the, 
of  Friar  Bacon,  a  study  by  C.  M. 
Gayley,  503-513. 

'  Vice,'  the  role  of  the,  in  early  plays, 
xlvi,  xlviii-liv  ;  Ixxiii,  Ixxvi,  Ixxxii, 
Ixxxiii,  Ixxxvi,  Ixxxix  ;  in  Heywood, 
li  and  10,  etc.  ('  Mery  Reporte ') ; 
Udall,  100 ;  in  Stevenson,  203  ;  in 
Peele,  342  ;  in  Greene,  393,  430. 

Viel  Testament,  le  Misfere  dn,  xxxiv. 

Vitalis  of  Blois,  his  dramatic  poems,  xvii. 

Voragine,  Jacobus  de,  his  Legenda  Aurea, 
xxx,  xliv. 

WADINCTON,  William  of,  his  Manuel  ties 
Pechiez,  xix. 

Wager,  Lewis,  his  Life  and  Repentaunce 
of  .Ifarie  Magdalene,  xxxi,  Ixxxvi. 

Wager,  William,  his  The  Longer  thou 
Livest,  etc.,  Ixxxvi,  533. 

Wagner,  Professor  W.,  on  Friar  Bacon, 
440,  446,  459,  510. 

Wakefield  Plays,  The  (ordinarily  called, 
from  the  family  owning  the  MS.,  the 
Towneley),  xxiii,  xxiv  ;  indebtedness 
to  the  York  cycle,  xxv-xxvi. 

Wakelield,  the  Playwright  of,  xxv-xxix  ; 
his  peculiar  stanza,  xxv-xxvi  ;  his  im- 
provements upon  the  second  and  third 
York  schools  of  dramatic  composition 
and  his  original  productions,  xxvii- 
xxix. 

Wapull,  Geo.,  T/ie  Tyde  Taryctli  no 
.'\fan,  Ixxxvi. 

Ward,  Dr.  A.  W..  his  History  of  English 
Dramatic  Literature,  xviii,  xix,  xlix, 
Ixviii,  Ixxvi,  Ixxxviii,  xc,  89,  101,  102, 


103,  346,  397.403.  405,  417.  4 1 9,  421, 
422,  426,  430  et  passim ;  his  Old 
English  Drama,  353,  363,  413;  his 
edition  of  Friar  Bacon  (in  O.  ]•'..  /).), 
415,  426,  430,  439,  441,  442,  et  pas- 
sim in  the  notes  to  Friar  Bacon. 

Wardrobe  Accounts  of  Richard  II,  xl. 

Warner,  Mr.  G.  V.,  his  Catalogue  of  the 
MSS.  and  Muniments  of  Alleyn's 
College  of  God's  Gift  at  Dulwich,  ex- 
posing some  of  Collier's  '  emenda- 
tions,' 515. 

Warton,  Dr.  Joseph,  Biographical  Me- 
moir of  the  late,  on  Com  us  and  the 
Old  Wires'1  Tale,  348. 

Warton,  Thomas,  Ins  History  of  English 
Poetry,  xxi,  xxiii,  xl,  xli,  xlii,  90, 
346  ;  his  Milton"1  s  Poems,  etc.,  on  the 
names  in  Counts,  383. 

Watson,  Thomas,  his  Passionate  Cen- 
turie  of  Lore,  265. 

Wedego,  Bishop,  against  religious  plays, 
xxxvi. 

Weever,  John,  his  verses  Ad  Ifenricitm 
Porter,  not  intended  for  the  drama- 
tist, 519. 

Well  of  the  World's  End,  The,  a  fairy 
tale,  see  note  to  O.  W.  T.,  345,  559. 

West,  Richard,  his   Court  of  Conscience, 

5'7- 
Westward  Hoe,  by  Dekker  et  a/.,  a  song 

in,  352- 
Wether,  The  Play  of  the,  by  John   Hey- 

wood,  edited  with  critical  essay  and 

notes  by  Mr.  A.  W.    Pollard,   3-59. 

Other  mention,  xlix,  li,  Ixvii. 
Wever,  R.,  his  Lusty  Jircentus,  xlvii,  li, 

Ixxii,  Ixxvi. 
"  What  Thing  is  Love?  "  a  song  in  Peele's 

Hunting  of  Cupid,  and  in  the  play  of 

Doctor  Doddipoll,  336;    paralleled  in 

Greene's    Mourning    Garment    and 

James  IV,  415-416. 
Wheatley,     II.     B.,    his    book    on    John 

Payne  Collier,  515. 


686 


Index 


'White  Bear  of  England's  Wood,  The,' 
a  character  referred  to  in  O.  IV.  T., 

345'  356~357- 

White,  Edward,  publisher  of  Greene's 
Friar  Bacon,  411  ;  copyright  owned 
by  William  White,  430. 

Whitgift,  Bishop,  Injunctions  at  York, 
etc.,  193. 

Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  The,  referred  to, 
notes  to  0.  W.  T.,  363. 

'  Wilful  Wanton,'  a  character  in  George 
Wapull's  Tyde  Taryeth  no  Man,  531. 

William  of  Blois,  his  Alda,  xvii. 

'  Will  Summer,'  Henry  VIII's  jester 
impersonated  in  Nashe's  Summer's 
Last  }Vill,  etc.,  lii,  Ixxxii,  Ixxxix,  344. 

Wilson,  Dr.  John,  Professor  of  Music  at 
Oxford,  518,  519. 

Wilson,  Robert,  the  author  of  Three 
Ladies  of  London,  and  of  Three 
Lordes  and  Three  Ladies,  Ixxxviii-xc; 
probably  also  of  A  Knack  to  Know  a 
Knave,  xc,  xci,  425  ;  colleague  of 
Chettle  in  the  non-extant  Second  Part 
of  Black  Bateman,  522;  his  Sir  John 
Oldcastell  mentioned,  523. 

Wilson,  Thomas,  his  Arte  of  Logique  or 
Rule  of  Reason,  the  "  ambiguous  let- 
ter "  in,  93,  95,  97. 

Wily  Beguiled,  cited,  24,  assigned  to 
Peele,  336. 

Winchester  Tropers,  the,  xiii. 

Winter's  Tale,  The,  Shakespeare's,  644, 
659,  660. 

Wireker,  Nigel,  his  Brunellus  (Speculum 
Stultorum*),  alluded  to,  xviii,  lii. 

Wisdom  that  is  Christ,  the  moral  of,  in 
Furnivall's  Digby  Plays,  xlviii,  1,  li, 
liii,  Iv,  Ivi,  Iviii. 

Wisdome  of  Doctor  Doddipoll,  The,  as- 
signed to  Peek-,  336. 

Wit  and  Folly,  the  dialogue  of,  by  John 
Hey  wood,  8. 

Wit  plays  :  Wyt  and  Science,  by  John 
Kedford,  Ixix,  Ixxii,  Ixxiii,  Ixxxviii, 


426 ;  The  Contract  of  a  Marrigt 
between  Wit  and  Wisdome,  liii,  Ixxi, 
Ixxiii,  Ixxvii,  Ixxxi ;  The  Marriage  of 
IVitte  and  Science,  a  revision  of  Red- 
ford's  play,  conjectured  by  Mr.  Fleay 
to  be  the  same  as  Wit  and  Will, 
Ixxiii,  Ixxiv,  Ixxvii. 

Wolsey,  Cardinal,  perhaps  referred  to  in 
Play  of  the  Wether,  52. 

Woman  Hard  to  Please,  a  lost  play,  521, 
526. 

Woman,  in  comedy,  Meredith  on,  Ixi. 

Woman  in  the  Moone,  The,  by  Lyly,  266, 
268,  272. 

Wroodberry,  Professor  G.  E.,  monograph 
on  Greene's  Place  in  Comedy,  387- 

394- 

Wood,  Anthony  a,  on  Udall,  89 ;  on  the 
Porters,  518,  519. 

Woodes,  Nathaniel,  author  of  The  Con- 
flict of  Conscience,  Ixxxvi. 

World  and  the  Child,  The,  or  Mundus  et 
Infans,  a  moral,  1,  Iviii. 

Worthies,  the  Nine,  and  Love's  Labour's 
Lost,  xl,  650. 

Wright,  Thomas,  his  Early  Mysteries,  etc. , 
of  the  1 2th  and  i^tli  Centuries,  xviii  ; 
(and  J.  O.  Ilalliwell-Phillipps),  Re- 
litfiiiic  Antiqiiic,  xix  ;  reprint  of  the 
Inter ludium  de  Clerico  et  Pnella  men- 
tioned, xvii,  Ixvi. 

Wycliff,  his  attitude  toward  miracles,  xix. 

YORK  PLAYS,  THE,  date  and  composition, 
xxiii ;  periods  of,  comedy  in  the  sec- 
ond and  third,  xxiv-xxv  ;  relation  of 
Waketield  plays  to,  xxv-xxvii ;  the  ro- 
mantic and  melodramatic  in,  xxix. 

'  Young  Juvenall,'  not  Lodge  but  Nashe, 

337- 
Youthe,    Ballad  of,   by    Robert    Greene, 

397- 

Youth,  The  Interlude  of,  Ixi,  Ixxi,  Ixxiv. 
Youth,  school  plays  of,  Ixxii,  Ixxiv. 
Yvcrs,  Jacques,  his  Printemps  d' Iver,  41 1 


The  Beginnings  of  Poetry 

BY 

FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERB, 

PROFESSOR    OF    HISTORY    IN    IIAVKKFORD    COLLEGE 


doth  8vo  $3.00  net 


This  book  undertakes  to  set  forth  the  facts  of  primitive 
poetry,  so  far  as  they  can  be  ascertained,  and  to  establish 
some  conclusions,  not  about  the  origin  of  the  art  as  the 
outcome  of  an  individual  creative  fancy,  but  about  the 
beginnings  and  development  of  poetry  as  a  social  insti- 
tution, as  an  element  in  the  life  of  early  man. 

"  In  style,  and  in  wide  reach,  and  in  grasp  of  data,  this 
work  may  well  rank  among  the  most  important  contribu- 
tions to  our  latter-day  scholarship.  .  .  .  To  the  reader  it 
gives  the  unmistakable  impression  of  originality  and  inde- 
pendent thought ;  furthermore,  it  has  a  comprehensiveness 
that  suggests  the  probability  of  its  being,  for  a  long  time 
to  come,  the  highest  court  of  appeal  on  subjects  within  its 
jurisdiction.  The  work  is  one  which  commends  itself  to 
the  man  of  general  culture,  as  well  as  to  the  specialist  in 
poetics."  —  Philadelphia  Times. 


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A  STUDY   IN  THE   ECONOMIC   INTERPRETATION 
OF   HISTORY 

By  SIMON  R  PATTEN 

Professor  of  Political  Economy  at  the  University  of  Pennsylvania 

Cloth  Extra.     Crown  8vo.     $3.00 

CONTENTS: 

CHAPTER  I.  —  THE  THEORY 

National  Character — Kinds  of  Environments  —  Adjustment  to  the  Environment  — 
Race  Ideals  —  The  Stratification  of  Society  —  The  Clingers  —  The  Sensualists — • 
The  Stalwarts  —  The  Mugwumps  —  The  Development  of  Classes  —  Stages  in  the 
Progress  of  Thought  —  Curves  of  Thought. 

CHAPTER  II.  —  THE  ANTECEDENTS  OK  ENOUSH  THOUGHT 

Primal  Economic  Conditions — The  Early  Germans  —  The  Catholic  Supremacy — - 
The  Economic  Influence  of  the  Early  Church  —  The  Fifteenth  Century  —  Political 
Conditions  —  The  Church  Programme  —  Crime  and  Vice  —  Indulgences  —  Social 
Problems  —  The  New  Wave  of  Sensualism. 

CHAPTER  III.  — THE  CAI.VINISTS 

Calvinism  —  Frugalism — Word  Visualism  —  Puritan  Opposition  to  Vice  —  Merry 
England — -Primitive  Traits  —  Public  Amusements  —  The  Disappearance  of  the 
Puritans  —  On  the  Interpretation  of  Great  Writers  —  Thomas  Hobbes  —  John 
Locke  —  Results  of  Locke's  Analysis  —  The  Deists  —  The  Outcome. 

CHAPTER  IV.  —  THE  MORALISTS 

Picture  of  the  Eighteenth  Century — -Bernard  Mandeville  —  David  Hume  —  Adam 
Smith  —  The  Religious7  Revival  —  Whitefield  and  Wesley  - — •  The  Manly  and 
Womanly  Elements  in  Religion — -Methodism — The  Joint  Influence  of  Adam 
Smith  and  Wesley. 

CHAPTER  V.  —  THE  ECONOMISTS 

The  Decline  of  France  —  The  Utopists  —  Thomas  Malthus  —  David  Ricardo  —  The 
Economic  Philosophy — John  Stuart  Mill  —  Charles  Darwin  —  The  English  Poets 
—  The  Oxford  Movement  —  The  New  Religious  Ideals. 

CHAPTER  VI.  —  CONCU'IHNC  REMARKS 

The  Harmony  of  Religious  and  Economic  Concepts  —  Tin'  Influence  of  Science  — 
Socialism  —  Fields  for  Future  Adjustment  —  The  New  Environment  —  The  Triumph 
of  Stalwartism  — The  New  Thought  Curves  —  The  Socializing  of  Natural  Religion. 


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